Damage - A. M. Jenkins [26]
The screen bangs shut. “Hey,” you call. “Go ahead and mow our yard, too. That’ll show you can really take care of other people’s possessions. Go on—I’ll call your mom and tell her how good you did.”
Curtis pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, squints up at you. “Sure,” he says. “And I’ll call your mom and tell her how you’re going to come over and paint our front porch.”
“How about if we just call it even?”
“Done,” says Curtis, and continues on to the tack room.
You dig in the fridge for a Coke, and pull out a Dr Pepper, too, for when Curtis comes back. That’s the way it’s always been; whenever he drops by he comes in to shoot the breeze. Besides, you’re tired of skimming through those CDs. You just don’t want to have to look Heather in the eye and admit you didn’t bother to listen to them.
You hear Becky coming down the hall, singing one of the songs you just played, one of Heather’s songs.
“I ain’t invisible, baby, so don’t look thro-o-ough me. Our love is possible, baby, so come over to-o-o me.” She walks into the kitchen just as you hoist yourself up to sit on the counter to wait for Curtis.
“That’s one of those songs that gets stuck in your head,” you observe—and it is. A minute ago it was just one of dozens you’ve heard this afternoon, but now, thanks to Becky, you’ll probably be humming it in your sleep tonight.
“I’d rather have that in my head than ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Or the commercial for Joe Ryan Chevrolet. You want me to sing that for you instead?”
“No,” you tell her. “Don’t. Please.”
Becky grins at you and takes a deep breath—but happens to glance out the window over the sink. She decides not to annoy you; apparently she’s been stricken with a sudden desire to straighten the sink area.
First she rinses the plate you left on the counter earlier and places it carefully in the dishwasher. Then she unfolds the dishcloth that sits by the sink, shakes it out, and refolds it. All the time looking out the window toward the tack room.
When Curtis stomps up the back steps, she says real loud, “Is that Curtis Hightower? Quick, lock the refrigerator before he inhales a week’s worth of groceries.”
Curtis doesn’t bother to respond, just steps inside to hang the key to the tack room back up. You don’t say anything, either, but hold out the Dr Pepper.
“Thanks.” Curtis takes the can from your hand and leans back against the counter by the refrigerator. He pops the top, takes a long drink. Flecks of grass and dirt are stuck to him, mostly on his legs but bits on his arms and chest, too.
Becky makes a big deal out of refolding the dishrag again—carefully, eyes down.
Curtis finally lowers the can and eyes Becky. One corner of his mouth goes up a little. “Hey, Becky. What’s this I hear about Robby LeBlanc being madly in love with you?”
Becky’s brows start to come together. If it was you, she’d let you have it with both barrels. But with Curtis, all she says is, “He is not.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” Curtis says, deadpan. “I thought for sure you’d want to run your hands through that flowing mane of his.”
Becky tries to give him one of those scathing looks she’s been practicing lately. The kind that sweeps from head to toe and back again, withering everything in its path. Only this one doesn’t make it all the way. It travels up Curtis’s legs, loses steam somewhere over his sweaty shorts, and falters completely in the vicinity of his bare chest.
You don’t know how Curtis feels about Becky having a crush on him. But he’s got to be aware of it; he’s not blind. And it’s his own fault, for all those years when you ordered Becky to quit following the two of you around, and he’d always feel sorry for her and say, “Aw, let her tag along.”
That stupid song is already replaying in your head. It ain’t just physical, baby…something, something.
Becky’s face is pink; she won’t meet anybody’s eyes. Luckily for her the phone rings. She snatches it off the wall. “Oh, hi. Hi, Aaron,” she adds, a little too loud. She ducks her head and her hair falls to shield her face.
“Aaron,