kitchen, snagging Erica’s purse for her off the table as well as the Hefty bag of party trash that had ratted me out to my dad by still being in the living room because I'd forgotten to take it out last night. I hand the patent-leather bag to her as we silently leave the house. Widening my eyes with enough sarcasm to effectively demonstrate what an enormous tool I know my dad is, she bites her lip and raises her eyebrows before giggling a little when I close the door behind us.
After cramming the trash bag into the overflowing garbage bin, I walk over to where Erica is opening the door of her grandma’s Grenada and notice Gladys Kravitz, my busy-body neighbor is out watering her rose bushes and eyeing us from behind her bifocals. Really her name is Mrs. Barbara Laskin; however, she treats being the eyes and ears of our block like a job. One that God personally ordained her to do. Her roses and front yard are exceptionally well manicured as a result. I wave to Gladys and then looking up and down the street to see many of my neighbors out enjoying the day, doing summer morning things like mowing their yards, I inhale through my nose a deep breath of the clean, fresh air that summers and new days are known for.
Erica tosses her purse into the car and we stand here, just hugging each other. Not awkwardly at all, actually; our firmly sealed pact has washed away all of that and anything that might be akin to it.
“Alright, I hate to jet outta here, but I really can't stand being late,” I tell her and catch little Lonny Faulkner across the street making all kinds of obnoxious kissy faces at us. I wait for his mom’s attention to turn to her fourteen-year-old daughter wearing a skimpy bikini to wash their minivan in before smirking and sticking my tongue out at Lonny. The pest of course ups my ante by flipping me off. Inwardly chuckling at the eleven-year-old, I pull back from our hug and kiss Erica’s cheek. “I’ll check in on you later if you want. Maybe we can grab a burger or get together sometime this week, ‘cause you’re not keeping that shirt.”
“Okay, yeah. I’d really like that. Especially the food part.” I chuckle and nod, relaying my stomach’s gurgling agreement when she sighs and says, “God, a burger sounds good.”
In my car I smooth my fingertips over the key in the ignition before grasping it. Then I crank and sit back, reveling in the rumble of the Impala thundering to life. I pump the gas pedal, making the muffler growl and purr, and give it a minute to warm up before throwing it in gear, and as Erica’s brake lights flash as she pulls off the curb, she hollers, “Call me, okay? I’m gonna hold Social D hostage until you do!”
I nod and give her the okay with my fingers followed by a thumbs up, and just like that, we venture out into a brand new day, Erica turning one way and I the other.
7
“Dragula”
—Cole—
Working with my hands all on my lonesome. The echoing crack of pounding nails into wood. My muscles flexing, bunching, and stretching; their concentration strictly on putting in a day’s worth of good, solid manual labor. Being out under the beating sun, my pores glistening, soaking up every last ray of sunshine and locking them in until my skin glows bronze, the richness of color staying with me long after the fire in the sky is doused and then rises to burn bright again day after day. And not being trapped in the dull lifelessness of what’s known as indoors.
That prescription of non-medicinal therapy is just what the doctor ordered for today. Even if it is a Monday. And okay, so I installed windows on the inside of the apartment I built on the top of the Mason’s garage. Before they were up though, a nice breeze was blowing through the openings and the door, and I did work up a sweat, so I’m just saying. Let’s not split hairs. The day hasn’t been too terrible, as Mondays typically suck as a general rule.
For a day or two after Holden died, everything
After cramming the trash bag into the overflowing garbage bin, I walk over to where Erica is opening the door of her grandma’s Grenada and notice Gladys Kravitz, my busy-body neighbor is out watering her rose bushes and eyeing us from behind her bifocals. Really her name is Mrs. Barbara Laskin; however, she treats being the eyes and ears of our block like a job. One that God personally ordained her to do. Her roses and front yard are exceptionally well manicured as a result. I wave to Gladys and then looking up and down the street to see many of my neighbors out enjoying the day, doing summer morning things like mowing their yards, I inhale through my nose a deep breath of the clean, fresh air that summers and new days are known for.
Erica tosses her purse into the car and we stand here, just hugging each other. Not awkwardly at all, actually; our firmly sealed pact has washed away all of that and anything that might be akin to it.
“Alright, I hate to jet outta here, but I really can't stand being late,” I tell her and catch little Lonny Faulkner across the street making all kinds of obnoxious kissy faces at us. I wait for his mom’s attention to turn to her fourteen-year-old daughter wearing a skimpy bikini to wash their minivan in before smirking and sticking my tongue out at Lonny. The pest of course ups my ante by flipping me off. Inwardly chuckling at the eleven-year-old, I pull back from our hug and kiss Erica’s cheek. “I’ll check in on you later if you want. Maybe we can grab a burger or get together sometime this week, ‘cause you’re not keeping that shirt.”
“Okay, yeah. I’d really like that. Especially the food part.” I chuckle and nod, relaying my stomach’s gurgling agreement when she sighs and says, “God, a burger sounds good.”
In my car I smooth my fingertips over the key in the ignition before grasping it. Then I crank and sit back, reveling in the rumble of the Impala thundering to life. I pump the gas pedal, making the muffler growl and purr, and give it a minute to warm up before throwing it in gear, and as Erica’s brake lights flash as she pulls off the curb, she hollers, “Call me, okay? I’m gonna hold Social D hostage until you do!”
I nod and give her the okay with my fingers followed by a thumbs up, and just like that, we venture out into a brand new day, Erica turning one way and I the other.
7
“Dragula”
—Cole—
Working with my hands all on my lonesome. The echoing crack of pounding nails into wood. My muscles flexing, bunching, and stretching; their concentration strictly on putting in a day’s worth of good, solid manual labor. Being out under the beating sun, my pores glistening, soaking up every last ray of sunshine and locking them in until my skin glows bronze, the richness of color staying with me long after the fire in the sky is doused and then rises to burn bright again day after day. And not being trapped in the dull lifelessness of what’s known as indoors.
That prescription of non-medicinal therapy is just what the doctor ordered for today. Even if it is a Monday. And okay, so I installed windows on the inside of the apartment I built on the top of the Mason’s garage. Before they were up though, a nice breeze was blowing through the openings and the door, and I did work up a sweat, so I’m just saying. Let’s not split hairs. The day hasn’t been too terrible, as Mondays typically suck as a general rule.
For a day or two after Holden died, everything
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