on the phone. I know Maya has taken lots of photos and videos. She’s already sent me a couple. I can’t wait to see the rest of them.
And then I find myself wondering about Robert’s Christmas. I can tell from what he didn’t say that it had been a difficult day. My heart goes out to him. He’s such a great kid, a good-looking kid, and suddenly I find myself thinking about Robert in ways I shouldn’t—the way his blond hair kicks up a little in the front, the wooden choker he wears around his neck sometimes, the way he fills out the seat of his jeans, the way the back hem of those jeans is always chewed up.
I struggle to push those images out of my mind. While he might be crushing on me, I have no business crushing on him. Still, if I’m being honest, I do feel a little giddy when I read his texts.
Chapter 6
Andrew
I wake up in the morning to a quick, but disturbing series of texts.
You make me wanna listen to music again. How do I get you alone? And it goes on. I close that text and read the next two. More of the same.
Robert, I’m a little uncomfortable here.
Ha, ha. Good morning, Mr. Mac. They’re just song lyrics. I’m sorting the music on my iPod into playlists. You like music, right?
I scan back through the texts and see that they are just that. Song lyrics. Some I don’t recognize, but most I do. Adam Lambert. Heart. The All-American Rejects. I feel like an idiot.
How’s your dad today?
Okay, I guess. The hospice nurse is here. I think she’s helping him shower.
And you?
I can still shower myself.
You know what I mean.
Robert
Nic does a drive-by the next day. I’m trying to install my new car stereo, and I doubt he would have stopped if I hadn’t seen him. He parks his vintage Mustang on the street and saunters over, then stretches out on the driveway.
“Trying to make your granny car cooler,” he says, looking at me over his sunglasses.
So much for sweet Nic. My skin prickles in irritation as I wedge myself between the steering wheel and the front seat. I slide the head unit back into the dash cavity, careful not to bunch up or pinch the wires in back.
Installing the stereo has proven to be a pain in the ass. The instructions read like they were written by monkeys. I’ve had to go back to my room each step of the way to search for YouTube videos to clarify something that, in my opinion, should have been spelled out clearly by the people who made the damn thing. I’m sweating despite the temperature in the forties.
I prick my thumb on a sharp piece of exposed metal. A bead of blood seeps from the wound. I stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
Nic is pattering on about his new Kindle, the Rude jeans he’s on his way to buy at Hot Topic with his Christmas cash (jeans he calls sexy and to die for), and the hot new guy at the tanning salon. Despite his annoying running monologue, I finally manage to get the connections right and everything back in place. I just need to get the screws back in, reconnect the battery, and try it out.
“Is your dad going to have a big funeral?” Nic says out of the blue. “I read that in New Orleans they sometimes march down the street after a funeral and play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ I think that would be really cool since he’s from Louisiana. And, oh God, it would be so sad, you know. It makes me want to bawl just thinking about it.”
I don’t respond.
“I’m not going to be there. You know that, right?”
I scoff as I try to get the angle right on the first screw and wonder again what I ever saw in this pretty boy.
“He’s not even dead yet,” I say sullenly.
“You’re getting kind of fat, you know,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You really should lay off the sodas and the French fries.”
I yank down the hem of my shirt. “I’m not getting fat.”
“Um, yeah, you are. Just a little though. A little pudge around the middle. And really, you should consider tanning. You’re stomach is as white as a marshmallow.”
I wonder for a moment if there is anything Nic likes about me. I’m about ready to jab the end of the Phillips head screwdriver right through his trendy designer sunglasses when he says, “Oh my God! I almost forgot. You’re never going to believe who’s tripping the light fantastic on the dark side.”
“Who?” I ask, ignoring the strange juxtaposition of his words and feeling like I already know the answer to my own question.
“Your calculus teacher. Mr. McNelis. Damn, he’s hot. I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”
Ironic, I think, since you can’t even stand the idea of French kissing. I steady my hand, my throbbing thumb notwithstanding, and secure the screw.
I mumble something about not believing everything you hear, and reconnect the battery. When I start the car, the new stereo booms. I turn down the volume, then kill the ignition and close the hood.
A little black-and-white Boston terrier has appeared out of nowhere and is sniffing at Nic’s legs, his tail wagging furiously. Nic knees him—“Get out of here”—and the scrawny dog scuttles backward. He advances on Nic again, a little more cautiously. This time Nic smacks him hard in the nose and the pooch yelps.
“Why did you do that?” I ask angrily.
“He’s getting dog snot all over my jeans.”
I crouch down on the driveway and try to coax the dog to me, but his tail is between his legs now and he holds back, wary. His ribs show through his dull, short coat. “Come here, boy. I won’t hurt you.”
“He’s probably got rabies,” Nic says.
“He doesn’t have rabies. He just looks like he’s lost.” I stand up and take a step toward the dog, but he turns tail and dashes off.
“That’s one ugly dog,” Nic says, then flexes his ankles and studies his Rockports.
“I gotta go in,” I say, closing my car door. “I need to help Dad with a shower.”
It’s a lie, but Nic runs off like his hair is on fire.
Andrew
By the end of the day I’ve accumulated so many texts that my in-box reaches its limit and I have to delete some. I start with the oldest texts and delete a lot of them, but I don’t delete Robert’s. I pretend that I don’t know why.
The next morning, another long string of texts. More lyrics. I recognize them for what they
