Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [2]
“I’m sorry, Logan. They’ve been shorthanded since Dori quit, and …” She left the rest unspoken. We could really use the money.
I couldn’t remember a time when we couldn’t have used more money. I’d been four years old when Dad peeled out of our gravel driveway, headed for the green pastures of New Mexico or Utah or somewhere. All I knew was that we’d never seen hide nor mullet of Dad again. Mom was left with me and my older sister, Laura, to take care of.
Mom searched for her keys. “Do you have any jobs tonight?”
I plucked the keys from the bowl by the front (and only) door and handed them to her. “It’s a little late in the year for mowing. Pray for a long winter.” The snowplows didn’t scrape the dirt roads that ran around Boyer, and a heavy snow could trap people in their homes. During especially bad storms I could make a killing shoveling drive ways, provided I was willing to work fourteen-hour Saturdays. Maybe that’s what had given me my powerful chest.
Mom smiled. With most guys my age, an after-school job meant gas money, maybe a date now and then. I knew better. I spent some money on clothes and school supplies. The rest I turned over to Mom. It had bothered her at first, but we could really use the money.
Mom picked up her jacket. “Can I fix you some dinner before I go?”
I pecked her cheek. “You’re already running late. Bring me back some hot wings.” It was an empty gesture anyway. Mom used to leave me a meal every night, but eventually stopped. I think she got tired of fixing me a casserole only to find me eating cold SpaghettiOs right out of the can.
She grabbed her purse. “Don’t stay up too late. And no girls in the house.” She was through the door before I could answer.
Mom didn’t intentionally try to rub it in; she knew Brenda was history. But like Jack, she just thought I was nursing a broken heart. I’d dated Brenda since our freshman year, after all. I needed a few weeks before I was ready to find someone else.
That’s what everyone thought. Everyone but me.
I plopped onto the couch, too exhausted to get up and turn on the TV (the set was so old it predated remote controls). I stared at the imitation-wood-paneled walls. It was about five-thirty I’d go to bed in six hours. And I couldn’t think of a damn thing to do in the meantime.
I didn’t have a car, so I couldn’t go hang out at Mr. Pizza or cruise what passed for the main drag in Boyer. I couldn’t drive out to Columbia, the only sizable city within a hundred miles. And I didn’t want to sit in a garage and huff paint like so many other people in this town.
I wished Laura still lived at home. She was a lot of fun, even if she did hog the bathroom. We’d talk, go for walks, and eat fast food together. But the year before, she got a scholarship to the University of Missouri in Columbia. It hadn’t really bothered me when she left. I missed her, but I still had Brenda. I thought I’d always have Brenda.
And now I had jack shit.
Massaging the hand I’d punched the locker with, I thought back to the past Fourth of July. Brenda and I had gone to “downtown” Boyer to watch the annual Independence Day parade: the mayor and aldermen in some not-quite-classic cars, the Boyer marching band endlessly bellowing “Louie Louie,” two tractors, and an unshaven clown. Afterward, I’d invited Brenda to the trailer for lunch.
Mom had barbecued some chicken (the one time I’d tried to be manly and run the grill, I ended up using my entire supply of driveway sand to douse the flames). Laura was still living at home then. She’d tried to engage Brenda in conversation.
My girlfriend had sat on a plastic lawn chair, listening to my extroverted sister but not saying much. She was almost painfully shy, especially around loud, friendly people like Laura or Jack. When my sister had gone inside for a drink, I asked Brenda if she wanted to go for a walk.
We didn’t say anything as we walked down the dusty gravel road in front of our lot. She was wearing the Boyer High T-shirt I’d given her. Her slender,