“Same time, same place on Thursday, kiddo. I’m thinking we’ll do some printmaking. I’m going to introduce you to Keith Haring. You’ll love him.”
Kevin pauses mid-step and theatrically spins back to face me with curiosity in his eyes. I smirk a little. Since his ever-curious mind won’t be able to wait until Thursday for an introduction to Haring’s pop art style, he’ll need a correct spelling to look up online.
“Keith Haring,” I repeat. “H-a-r-i-n-g.”
He grins broadly, waves goodbye, and then runs into the house at a sprint.
My first run-in with Kevin—almost literally—was on my second day in the neighborhood, when he came zipping down the driveway on a scooter just as I turned onto the cul-de-sac. I screeched to a stop just in time, my front bumper coming within inches of his front scooter wheel. Grandma Melanie rushed outside and was apologizing before I even had a chance to catch my breath. Then she launched into what sounded like a routine lecture for Kevin on paying attention to his surroundings.
But Kevin was staring at my paint-spattered t-shirt and overall shorts, barely waiting until Melanie stopped talking before asking me why I looked like one of The Rainbow Goblins. I explained that I was an artist, which prompted him to drag me by the hand into the Kangs’ house, where Kevin proudly showed off his “gallery”, also known as the “kitchen.”
Drawings and paintings were plastered everywhere, from the refrigerator and the cabinets to the pantry door and the center island. I listened patiently as Kevin explained his inspiration for each and every one, then showed him a fun watercolor trick involving sea salt to create texture. Melanie evidently saw an opportunity and practically begged me to give Kevin private art lessons twice a week. I said yes, partly because of Kevin, and partly because of the seventy-five dollars an hour she agreed to pay me.
Aside from my time with Kevin, though, I’m not exactly becoming part of the neighborhood or anything. The hedge-clipping neighbors scowl every time I wave at them, and over at the Hinton house, their slacker nephew is exactly as Jack described. Tyler rarely emerges from the house before three o’clock in the afternoon and is typically shirtless when he does. Most of his time after that is spent smoking cigarettes and looking around under the hood of his gigantic, jacked-up, oil-leaking truck.
Today is no exception. I give him a polite smile when I leave the Kangs’ house, but deliberately avoid crossing over to his side of the street as I walk back to the Greenes’ house. Tyler and his pal—another real winner, from what I can tell—are leaning against the bumper of his truck, smoking and watching me as I walk by. They’re almost identical twins: both sporting mops of greasy too-long hair, and dressed in baggy, dirty jeans and steel-toed work boots. No shirts, of course. Just a couple of pasty-skinned torsos and beginner beer bellies for me to enjoy.
I keep enough distance to make it clear I’m not interested in a conversation, even if it’s one where I can offer up a helpful suggestion about where to buy a nice t-shirt. All I really want to do is get inside the house and away from their creepy stares, but I planned to mow the lawn after Kevin’s lesson today. If I stick to my original schedule, then I’ll be out here with an audience while I drag the lawnmower around and sweat uncomfortably.
Maybe I’ll just put that task off for another few hours. If I’m lucky then Tyler and Company will eventually take a break from all their chain-smoking and go back inside to do whatever it is they might do when they’re tired of standing around out here. I mean, honestly, there has to be something else on their schedule today, like a Sons of Anarchy marathon or a very special edition of WWE Smackdown.
That and a bag of pizza rolls would do the trick—I hope.
Four hours later, I can’t stand it any longer. I wasted a few hours sunning by the Greenes’ pool, but now it’s early evening and I’m quickly running out of time today to deal with the lawn.
I start a new part-time job at a place called Wine, Wonder & Whimsy tomorrow, an art studio and supply store where they hired me to teach paint-and-sip classes four times a week. Between Kevin’s private lessons, this new gig, and working on my own projects, I suddenly have a full schedule, which means I can’t put off this lawn maintenance for too long.
I peer out the mini-blinds in the dining room and let out an unhappy little growl. Tyler is really putting in some time out there today. He also acquired some new sidekicks in the last few hours, so now there are four shirtless guys milling around in the Hintons’ driveway. I have no idea what is going on under the hood of that stupid truck to require so many geniuses to investigate it, but there they all are, gawking at the engine while doing absolutely nothing.
So much for waiting them out and hoping for a distraction to lure them inside. I let the blinds snap shut and trudge out to the garage. After dragging the lawn mower out to the yard, I muscle it over the decorative rock border and into the grass, and then gave the starter cord a yank.
And… nothing happens.
I’ve mowed a few lawns in my day, so I’m not thrown off too much and proceed to give the cord another yank, harder this time. Same result, though. Nothing but the sound of me grumbling and cussing a few times. A few more tries and then I check the gas tank. It’s full, which means I’m now out of ideas. All I have left in my arsenal is to glare at the stupid machine and call it dirty names under my breath. No surprise, but that doesn’t fix anything either.
The whole time I can almost feel the smirks pointed my way from Tyler and his entourage. I almost wish I was wearing a different outfit, because my cutoffs and cropped swing tank suddenly feel like they’re see-through. It doesn’t help that one of them turned on a radio, so now I have an obnoxious hip-hop soundtrack to go along with everything else and feel a little bit like I’m starring a music video I didn’t sign up for.
I’m just about to abandon the mower in the middle of the yard and stomp back inside when a familiar vehicle turns down the cul-de-sac and heads in my direction.
Wonderful. As if things weren’t frustrating enough out here, now JT is home. What a great way to end this little suburban nightmare of mine.
I yank the mower cord a few more times, hoping to look busy more than anything. At least that way JT and I can continue to ignore each other the way we have for the last two weeks. The mower sputters a few times just as JT rolls to a stop in front of his parents’ house, and even though I tell myself not to look his way, I fail spectacularly the moment he steps out and meets my stare. A needy little groan of appreciation rises up when my eyes track over his body from head to toe, but I bite to back the sound before it leaves my throat.
I realize that all of JT’s lean, chiseled muscles did not just spontaneously appear one day, but instead came about because he clearly puts in some time at the gym. That being said, I’m not sure I can deal with one more day of him coming home looking like he’s about to shoot a sports drink commercial. I don’t care if that body is the result of crazy conditioning routines and tire-tossing hijinks, I’m just not comfortable with living across the street from the embodiment of my secret hot jock fantasy. The fact that I have the fantasy at all is bad enough—I blame it on watching Varsity Blues when I was twelve—but what’s worse is how JT is stoking that craving to an all new level.