mugs from the kitchen, set his down in front of him.
“Look. Stay. I mean . . . I can wait. It’s only fair. Jase didn’t know I wanted it anyway. Four months is nothing. You can be here for four months and then . . .” I trail off.
Then what?
Troubled gray eyes search my face for a long time. Finally, he sighs, shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll find somewhere else. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
Like a home’s something you have to earn when you’re seventeen.
He’s a kid. Not a man, not on some deadline. But with his jaw set and raised – I know that face. The I’m going to push on through, no problem, I’ll deal. Moving right along. Nothing to see here face. Know it as well as my own. It is my own. And I picture the rest of the lines on that paper.
Tim Mason: The Boy Most Likely To . . .
Forget his own name even before we do
Turn down the hottest girl in the world for the coldest beer
Be six feet under by our fifth reunion
Don’t go that way, Tim. Such a stupid, stupid waste. “I mean it,” I say aloud. “Stay.”
Pause.
“I want you here,” I add, my cheeks flaring. He shifts on the couch and I’m hyper-aware of him next to me, the smell of soap and shampoo, the heat of him, the alive of him.
“Please, stay.”
My words fall into the silence, and something changes. Tim’s shoulders straighten. He stills, but not frozen, more like . . . more like . . . alert.
“Yeah? Then . . . I’ll be here,” he says quietly. “Since you asked so . . . nicely.”
“Look – if you stick around, there’ll be rules.”
“Always are,” Tim says immediately. “Helps if they’re clear.”
Like, posted on the refrigerator? But I don’t say it.
“Not that I’ll necessarily follow them, but –”
“The cigarettes go,” I say. “This place is not going to be a refuge if you burn it to the ground, and if I ever do get it to myself, I don’t want it smelling like an old-man bar.”
Unfolding himself from the couch, he brushes past me, wings the pack of Marlboros into the trash can under the sink, knots the bag tight, sets it next to the door. Collapses back down on the couch next to me, laces his hands behind his head, stretches.
“Sorry – again. Trying to kick ’em. I tossed a whole carton but . . . that pack was an impulse buy. Trying to control that, because my impulses suck.”
His eyes flick to my face, my lips, lower, back to my eyes.
Outside, it’s gone on raining, slashing sideways against the windows, the wind loud and constant. It’s warm in here. Overheated even.
Even though I’m laying out rules, Tim is not one of my brothers.
He glances at my lips again, and there’s the sound of a sharp inhale. His or mine?
I jolt up. “I have to get home.”
“I’m walking you out.” Tim gets quickly to his feet, grabs the green plastic garbage bag, steps in front of me. “Dangerous neighborhood and all that. There’s a raccoon under the woodshed the size of a puma.”
We keep our trash cans in a low shed near the stairs. When we reach it, Tim bends over to jettison the bag. “Don’t tell Jase about, about . . . the whole thing with my parents, ’kay?” His voice is muffled. “A man has his pride.”
I’m walking backward up the driveway, forcing a light laugh. “Of course not. I never kiss and –”
“I missed the part where we kissed? Wait, let’s rewind. I promise not to put up a fight.” He dodges in front of me, smiling, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’d take me, anyway. And I’d let you.”
I shake my head, laughing, then shield my eyes as headlights flare, backlighting Tim, and a car backs slowly out of our driveway.
“I’m two seconds from utter and total collapse!” Andy calls from her handstand position, her legs, kicked up against the fence by the side of our driveway, swaying wildly.
“You can do this,” Samantha says, slightly breathless, in the same position. “It’s really great for your form, trust me. If you can get the handstand down, you’re golden – right, Alice?”
“It’s the core gymnastics move,” I call. Andy and I share a bedroom, a bathroom, and half my clothes. I love my sister. But I thank God Sam’s helping her practice for gymnastics tryouts.
Jase is fiddling with his Mustang. Mom’s supervising Duff and Harry, who are mostly spraying each other and throwing sponges and sometimes washing the van. George is drawing on the blacktop, standing back, then jumping on his drawing, over and over again. Patsy waves at me from the kiddie pool. “Ayiss! A me, Ayiss!”
As usual, our driveway and lawn are completely overpopulated. Perfect. Easier with a crowd.
Brad has pulled gingerly in next to the Mustang, glancing around with an anxious look. He’s terrified of our driveway. I think he worries about running over one of my siblings, but it might also be the damage Patsy’s Cozy Coupe could do to his beloved Taurus. I slide into the passenger seat and Brad gives me a damp cheek smack and a thigh squeeze.
Beyond my open window, Harry swings the hose toward Brad’s car, but, quick as lightning, Mom swoops down and puts a kink in it. “No spraying people unless they say yes, Harry. George, lovie, I think that only works when Mary Poppins is there.”
George leaps again onto a chalk painting of, I think, a palm tree and a turtle. “Text her, then, Mommy.”
“Mary Poppins doesn’t believe in cell phones.”
“So, Ally. Want to come over? We can hang with Wally, you can cook us up some mac and cheese. I scored the last copy of Annihilation 7: The Grizzlies’ Revenge. I’m going to whip Wally’s ass at it and wipe the floor with him.”
I pause, turn to him. “Here’s the thing, Brad. I’ve been thinking . . .”
Jase’s gaze lights on me for a moment, eyebrows lifting. He’s seen these dominos fall before.
“Mommy!” Harry bellows, “Patsy’s getting bitey!”
“She walked on my island picture. It’s wrecked now!” George adds, pointing accusingly at Patsy, who is chasing Harry, top-knot of hair bobbing, tiny teeth bared.
Mom scoops up Patsy, who squirms in her arms. “I tiger, Mama,”
