Cut Both Ways (12 page)

“Go turn it on,” I say. “You gotta run the water a while before the hot makes it up here.”

“Okay,” she says. Her hands are still on her boobs. Once she's gone, I sit up, put on my glasses, unpeel the thing. It's sticking to my ball hair in a way that's horrible, and the sound it makes when it comes off is even worse. I glance at the door. The shower is running. I wonder what it would be like to not have to use these fucking things.

“It's hot now, Will!” Brandy yells.

Taking a shower with a girl isn't as cool as you'd think. First,
I want to see everything, and wearing your glasses into the shower is not cool. Second, my shower is gross. I mean, it's small with two people in there and I don't really ever clean it and my shampoo was nearly empty and Brandy asks me if I have any conditioner and I'm like, what? Plus, after I finish washing up, we just kind of stand there getting wet and kissing, until it's clear that sex could happen again but I'm not even going to try pulling it off in here.

We get out and dry each other off. She turns to hang up the towels when we're done. I get to see her body like before and I don't want her to think I'm a creeper or anything, but it's one of my favorite parts of sex. I wish I had a picture of it, her body. I come up behind her and start touching her again, and our skin kind of squeaks against each other; my mom says that's from hard water. Of course in Oak Prairie there's a water softener. My dad thinks that shit's a waste of money.

As I'm touching her, Brandy leans back. I know she can feel my boner but she's acting all normal. She says she likes the dog picture over the toilet.

“My aunt's more into cats,” she says. “But that is a pretty picture. I like the composition of it. When I have my own house, I'm getting a dog. I've always wanted a dog.”

I want to tell her that my mom doesn't like pets; she doesn't like dog hair or cat boxes. That my dad never had a feeling about it, but I sensed he didn't fight her on that because of the cost. There is nothing sexy about money. Nothing. I stare at the sleeping-dog picture and wish I didn't have parents.

I turn her around and kiss her and we go back into the futon to do it. Because that's where the condoms are. Because there was no way I'd make Brandy lie on my awful bathroom floor.

Afterward Brandy goes to get dressed, but I tell her not to. I feel super lazy. It's been a long week; I'm still working at Time to Eat, even with school, and we put up two new walls and Sheetrocked one of them, too. Just me and my dad. Even though I'm back to living at my mom's and staying at my dad's every other weekend like we've always done.

“Tell me some stuff,” I say.

“What?”

I put my arm around her. Her hair's still wet but I like even that. I kiss her between her tits. “I mean, what do you like?”

“You mean, like sex stuff?”

“No,” I say. “Not sex. Just, I don't know. DeKalb was giving me shit.”

“About me?”

“No,” I say, realizing that was a mistake.

“Because I'm a sophomore?”

“No,” I say. “Not that. He was asking me all this shit about you and teasing me like I don't know you.”

“DeKalb is an idiot,” she says. Laughs. Her hands are back on her boobs, but she curls in toward me, and her hair sprinkles water on my chest.

“Okay, so you like Target,” I say. “And yarn. And Miller Grill. And taking pictures. And babysitting . . .”

“I don't like babysitting,” she says. “I just do it for money.”

“Okay, so you hate kids.” She laughs. I smile up at the ceiling. “You live with your aunt and your nana. You do your laundry at my dad's Laundromat.”

“So do you.”

“Do you ever see your mom?”

She gets tense. “My mom's a loser.”

I don't know what to say to that.

“You want to know good things, I will tell you good things,” she says. Her hand slides around my stomach and chest, twisting around the little hairs I have there in a way that almost tickles but doesn't quite. “I like onion rings. I'm starting drivers' ed next semester. My birthday's the day after St. Patrick's Day. I think tattoos are overrated.. And I don't like the color orange.”

“That's good.”

“I don't play any instruments, my favorite class this year is psychology, and I have only kissed one other person besides you.”

“Really? Who?” I say it without thinking that there's no way I can ever tell her about Angus.

“No,” she says. “I'm not talking about that. I don't need to tell you reasons that I suck.”

This makes perfect sense to me. So much sense, I feel terrible even asking her. But I repeat back in my head everything's she said:
onion rings, driver's ed, March 18, no tattoos, , orange bad.

It's a good start.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

THE NEXT DAY,
I go into Time to Eat to give Garrett my schedule now that I'm in school. Time to Eat's halfway between my mom's and my dad's, but with shifts starting at 4 and school letting out at 3:30, it's not like I can always get there. It's even more driving than I'm used to. Plus I need some time to get my homework done.

Carl's in the dish room, dumping soap into the silverware soak.

“What's going on, Carl?”

“Fucking bitches, making money,” he says, barely looking at me.

“Right,” I say.

Garrett's in his office looking at his laptop. A big sweaty Coke in a glass is sitting beside him.

“Will,” he says. He's wearing a grimy apron over his Time to Eat denim shirt. I'm so glad I've never had to wear that denim
shirt. I mean, on an old guy, it's fine. But in general, for me, denim shirts are absolutely terrible. “What can I do for you?”

“Got my new schedule since school started,” I say, handing him the sheet of paper. “I can't work as much. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” he says. “Got some college guys coming back for other hours. Always juggling you all around. I've got a system.”

“Cool,” I say.

“Sit down,” he says. “You hungry?”

I tell him no, sit in the chair by his desk.

“How's the house coming along?”

I shrug. “It's okay.”

He sits back. Nods. Sips his Coke.

“Sure you don't want anything to drink? Eat?”

I shake my head.

“Your dad buy that place in St. Paul like he was talking about?”

“What?”

Garrett looks a little embarrassed. He itches his jaw. “There's a Laundromat he had his eye on over there,” he says. “By the barbecue place he likes.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I've never talked to him about it.”

Garrett nods. “Okay. Okay.” He pauses. Leans forward. “Okay, Will. Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.” But I suddenly don't want to know it.

“Here's the thing. I'm a little concerned with what's going on at your dad's place.”

“All right.”

“This by no means is something you need to fix or worry about,”
he says. “I'm just not sure he's got the whole thing under control anymore. He's running out of money. Worse yet, he's running out of time. We get an early freeze this fall and quite frankly, he's fucked.”

“I know.”

This is something I've been trying not to think about. And hoping nobody would notice. Or that it would change. But the truth is, nothing's really happened in the house for a while. My dad's busy like always, but I don't see much difference or progress. As uncomfortable as everything is in the house, it feels like my dad doesn't notice. He seems comfortable. At least when he's around, that is.

“The thing is, he won't stop fighting the city on that electrical and that's what'll be holding shit up. Is the furnace connected yet?”

“I think so? I don't know.”

“It's not,” he says. “It wasn't, last I heard, and he wouldn't pay a guy to do it. I know a good guy, too, but he hasn't reached out to him yet. My guy is already booked out on other jobs, but he costs, so your dad's balking.”

“Okay. So what do I do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Like I said earlier, I'm not telling you this so that you think it's your problem. It's just, I've known your dad a lot of years and I know how important redoing this house is to him. I just don't want you to think it's going to be finished faster than it is. This kind of thing always stretches out longer than anyone expects. There's been a bit of scope creep, when it comes to the original project.”

“All right,” I say. “I get it.”

“And I know your mom might jump down his gullet about that, too. I don't want to defend him—he's definitely gotten carried away with the whole thing—but I want you to understand it's also pretty common, when it comes to home remodels and construction. So you shouldn't feel caught between them, if that comes up.”

“I think Roy was kind of worried about this, too.”

“Yeah, he said some things to me that made me wonder about it to begin with. That kid's pretty sharp, actually. Your father did good, getting him to help. I just hope he sticks with college and everything.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don't know if it's just talk, but he mentioned last night wanting to ditch out; saying he doesn't think it's real enough, real-world enough, I guess.”

“Huh,” I say. I don't like that idea, either. Just because it makes me think Roy's going to go back to being on drugs and homeless. College is where he needs to stay.

“Listen,” Garrett says. “You ever need anything, you let me know. I know your dad pretty well and he's probably got you trained to be all self-reliant and that's great. You sure as hell need that in life. But he can be overly proud, too. Pride's a big thing in this house stuff, you might have noticed. He's trying to do what Tess said he couldn't do.”

“Mom told me they didn't have the money.”

“Tess said she thought it was a waste of time, that you should
just move to a better neighborhood entirely. But she wanted a lot of things he didn't want. So I think he's been waiting to make this move awhile now. I'm pretty sure he'd rather fall over and die than admit he's over his head.”

“So, you want me to tell you how it's going? Like a spy?” I'm immediately suspicious. This is the kind of shit my mom's been doing for years. Asking about his drinking. Asking about whether he's dating anyone. Asking about why my basketball uniform wasn't clean for tournaments. Asking if he still was running the Laundromat, why he sold the car wash. Asking, and not just to be polite.

“No, no, no,” Garrett says quickly. “I just want you to know that if you need anything and you don't feel comfortable talking to your mom, my door's open. You don't have to feel weird about it, either, because I'm your boss. We've got more than that between us, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'm your boss because I've known you're a smart kid and I had a hunch you'd be a good worker. I wasn't wrong, either.”

I feel embarrassed, but it's like the best thing anyone's ever said to me. I can't look at him, so I just say thanks and then tell him I've got to get home.

I'm sitting in my mom's house, watching her cook three meals at once, as usual. Chicken nuggets for Taylor and this weird cheese thing for Kinney, meatballs and spaghetti for me.

“Will, you have no hair,” Taylor says to me. “Where is all your hair from before?”

“I cut it,” I tell her. “It was making my neck hot.” I don't tell her that Brandy cut it for me. With an electric shaver. We did it on her front porch. Her aunt Megan thought it was hilarious. After Megan left to go to take Nana to the doctor, we did it quick in Brandy's room, too. Brandy couldn't stop running her hands over my stubble and that felt amazing. I'm getting hard just remembering it.

“I like the new glasses,” Kinney says. “But not your hair. Sorry.”

Taylor puts her hands on her hips. Taylor (and Kinney) are both kind of tiny to me. Little tiny girls with little brown haircuts going to their chins and little T-shirts that have little smart-assy sayings on them like
BOW TO THE PRINCESS
or
HOMEWORK MAKES MY DOG SICK
or whatever.

“You want mineral water or regular, Will?” my mom asks. “Or we've got milk, too. And orange juice. Apple juice . . .” She's bending down, looking into the fridge. “Some cranberry, if you like that . . .”

“Water's fine,” I say.

The dining-room table is huge; you could sit about fifteen people at it, but Taylor and Kinney are dicking around, spinning on the bar stools at the breakfast-counter thing, waiting for my mom to slide their individual meals on their little plates that have dancing monkeys on them. Kinney's wearing earbuds and is singing along to the music, which sounds awful, and Taylor is also singing, even though she's not wearing earbuds. I don't know if Taylor's singing along to the same song or what.

You would think my mom would be all stressed, with all the cooking and her kids singing like idiots and whatever, but she's
not. She comes over to where I am and sets up two plates across from each other, pours herself a glass of red wine, lights the candles on the table. Like we're on a date, she and I. She gives me a glass of water and says we'll eat in just a minute, then she goes and gets Kinney a container of Parmesan cheese from the fridge and checks her laptop, which is sitting on the counter next to the sink, and then finally she brings over the spaghetti and meatballs and a loaf of garlic bread and some Caesar salad she made. Caesar salad for real, not from a bag; I watched her whip up the dressing for it and everything.

“There,” she says, once it's all laid out. “Let's tuck in.”

Tuck in
: my mom always says stuff like that.

So, we serve ourselves and don't say anything, except to ask for salt and pepper, and Taylor and Kinney come over and start asking questions about the garlic bread and why it's all shiny and crunchy and my mom says, “Go finish your own dinner and let Will and me catch up.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Taylor says, but she does what her mom says.

But we don't
catch up
. We just eat. My mom savors her food, closes her eyes while she chews, while she sips her wine. She gets up a bunch to clear the twins' plates and send them off into the TV room. Kinney won't go, though; after what seems like years of negotiation, she promises Mom that she won't bug us and just listen to her iPod at the breakfast nook.

“Isn't this nice?” she says. “Peaceful.”

It's not totally peaceful. Kinney's still singing. My mom checks
her watch, which isn't just a watch but a GPS and a fitness tracker and probably also downloads e-books and launches nuclear submarines and orders pizza.

“Jay should be home in another hour. Thank God. You'd think with the girls in school, things would be less crazy. But it's been crazier than ever.”

I nod. I can hear the Disney Channel from the TV room, where Taylor is. .

“And work's been crazy too.”

I nod again. This, she always says. Since I can remember. She always had a normal job, even when I was younger. She steadily made more and more money, finally passing my dad and whatever he could do with his little businesses. She had just started with her current company, which was when she met Jay, and then the divorce stuff happened. Now she's been promoted a bunch, even though Jay works for the outdoors company now.

I don't like to think about her and Jay. My dad calls it cheating, but I think they were legally separated. It's not like I'm going to ask my mom when she started having sex with Jay. Obviously it's pretty gross to start up with someone before you've finalized things with your ex-husband. It's like my dad doesn't see how everything else was shitty. He just thinks,
she cheated on me
, as if that tells the whole story.

Not even Jay and her cheating really bugs me that much. This is the main problem with my mom. Though her spaghetti's good and she's made time for me and she's talking to me like I'm an adult, too, and not her son, there's just not a lot I want to talk
about with her. Work is probably the safest subject we've got. Even if I see it differently than she does, I get it now: how work gets crazy.

“You're still working at that restaurant?” my mom asks, sweeping up Caesar dressing with a piece of garlic bread.

“Mmm hmm,” I say. My mouth's full but I can't think of anything to say otherwise.

“Do you like it?” she says. “The job, I mean? I imagine it's not an easy one.”

“Yeah,” I say, because for once there're no meatballs in my mouth. I wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin, which matches the cloth placemat—deep red, like the wine my mom drinks—and tell her a little about the job. About all the food people throw out. About the delivery mornings and all the stuff Garrett unloads for the week. About the waitresses who tip me out now, for busing tables when Everardo gets slammed in the dish room, Garrett giving everyone rounds of milkshakes and fries after a big rush. About Sierra who reads people's palms in the break room. About the one guy who got hired as an EMT and quit cooking, which has sent me up to the line to do more than just run the fryer.

“Wow,” my mom says, folding her napkin along her placemat. “How fascinating. It's amazing they do all these other vocations at the same time.”

I nod. But:
vocations.
Another word my mom would say. As if it's all so noble or exotic.

“So, how's your father doing?” she asks. And then I remember why I hate this kind of dinner with my mom. Catching up—the
whole point isn't to talk to me. It's to get a read on my dad. To see if he's sucking, at both life and fatherhood. Nothing makes me want to disappear faster than this shit. But it seems like the only thing she has left, where I'm concerned; she's trying to make it up to me. She's trying to show she's not a total asshole who doesn't care, except she can't just do nice things like make me dinner and leave it at that. No, she has to act like she's all worried about my well-being and my dad's finances and how clean the goddamn house is and all that shit.

“He's fine,” I say. “Doing good.”

“Still running the Laundromat?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Will he buy another place, you think?”

I shrug. I have to be very careful here. Though she doesn't need a dime from my dad, she's still all over his spending habits. Still looking for places where he's being irresponsible.