work ethic.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Now if only Jackson worked
that hard, we could really get some things done around here.” Jeff grins.
Broom still in hand, Jackson
raises his arms in a bring-it gesture. “I work plenty hard.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “You
were inside all day.”
“I’m not the guy on the
bottom anymore,” he says. Seeing my expression, he adds, “Kidding. We’ll switch
off, don’t worry.”
“All right boys,” Jeff
clears his throat. “Let’s get locked up and get home.”
“Sure thing,” Jackson says,
stowing the broom in the corner and pulling the keys out of his pocket.
Jeff gestures to me. “Ben,
let’s head out. Jackson can finish up here.”
“I thought we were riding
back home on the dirt bike?”
“Jackson is, but he’s not
technically allowed to have passengers on a provisional motorcycle license, so
I’d rather you come with me. Besides, as you pointed out, I haven’t seen you
all day.”
As we pull out of the lot, I
can just see Jackson in the side mirror locking the last door at the end of the
greenhouse.
“So what did you think of
your first day?” Jeff asks.
I shrug, then groan as
soreness bites into my shoulders. “I wasn’t really planning on working this
summer. Especially not manual labor.”
Jeff nods. “I can understand
that. This summer was a bit unexpected for all of us.” He waves with two
fingers out the window as we pass a black Chevy truck. “But I’m really glad we
get you for the summer.”
My attention wanders to the
greenery flying past. “Free labor, right?”
He sends a disapproving
glance my way. “Not what I meant, Ben.”
“Sorry.”
For a minute, no sound but
the hum of the engine fills the cab. “No need to apologize. This is a big
change that got thrown at you.”
“It’s not fair.” The moment
the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It makes me sound like a little
kid, but it’s also the truth.
“No, it’s not, but that’s
just the way things are sometimes.” He hesitates, then adds, “I expect you boys
to be ready to walk out the door at seven a.m. tomorrow. We’re not going to be
driving separately every day, am I clear?”
I swallow, running my
fingers along the armrest. “Okay.” Outside, green fields of wheat and corn sail
past just like the minutes. Everything here is so different than back home, and
the only comfort is that for every field and every minute that passes, I’m a
little bit closer to the fall semester at Stanford.
We’ve been home about ten
minutes when Jackson turns into the driveway and steers the dirt bike into the
garage. From the window in his room, I watch him hop off the bike, first
setting the safety glasses across the handlebar and then his helmet on a shelf.
He strides across the yard, the sun at his back casting his shadow in front of
him.
“I’m home,” his words carry
up the stairs. “Ready to work on the bike, Dad?”
“Sure am,” Jeff’s distant
voice replies.
I sit down on the edge of
Jackson’s bed. It’s strange to listen in on them like this, to hear how they
interact. What would it have been like if Jackson had ended up with Mom, and I
had lived with Jeff? Would we be the ones having the conversation right now
about fixing up the dirt bike? I don’t even know how to ride one, much
less fix the damn thing.
The sound of rapid movement
up the stairs precedes Jackson’s entrance to the room and his eyes sweeping
over me. “Want to help us out with the bike?”
I’m dirty and sore, and
there’s no way I’m going to willingly play mechanic now too.
“Look,” he says. “I know
today probably sucked, but it would be more fun if you helped.” His voice
lowering, he admits, “Just me and Dad all the time can get a little boring.”
Despite all the work I’ve
done today, I almost say yes. Then I remember that he was the one who all but
cut off the communication between us, and a swell of resentment rises inside
me, drowning out
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Now if only Jackson worked
that hard, we could really get some things done around here.” Jeff grins.
Broom still in hand, Jackson
raises his arms in a bring-it gesture. “I work plenty hard.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “You
were inside all day.”
“I’m not the guy on the
bottom anymore,” he says. Seeing my expression, he adds, “Kidding. We’ll switch
off, don’t worry.”
“All right boys,” Jeff
clears his throat. “Let’s get locked up and get home.”
“Sure thing,” Jackson says,
stowing the broom in the corner and pulling the keys out of his pocket.
Jeff gestures to me. “Ben,
let’s head out. Jackson can finish up here.”
“I thought we were riding
back home on the dirt bike?”
“Jackson is, but he’s not
technically allowed to have passengers on a provisional motorcycle license, so
I’d rather you come with me. Besides, as you pointed out, I haven’t seen you
all day.”
As we pull out of the lot, I
can just see Jackson in the side mirror locking the last door at the end of the
greenhouse.
“So what did you think of
your first day?” Jeff asks.
I shrug, then groan as
soreness bites into my shoulders. “I wasn’t really planning on working this
summer. Especially not manual labor.”
Jeff nods. “I can understand
that. This summer was a bit unexpected for all of us.” He waves with two
fingers out the window as we pass a black Chevy truck. “But I’m really glad we
get you for the summer.”
My attention wanders to the
greenery flying past. “Free labor, right?”
He sends a disapproving
glance my way. “Not what I meant, Ben.”
“Sorry.”
For a minute, no sound but
the hum of the engine fills the cab. “No need to apologize. This is a big
change that got thrown at you.”
“It’s not fair.” The moment
the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It makes me sound like a little
kid, but it’s also the truth.
“No, it’s not, but that’s
just the way things are sometimes.” He hesitates, then adds, “I expect you boys
to be ready to walk out the door at seven a.m. tomorrow. We’re not going to be
driving separately every day, am I clear?”
I swallow, running my
fingers along the armrest. “Okay.” Outside, green fields of wheat and corn sail
past just like the minutes. Everything here is so different than back home, and
the only comfort is that for every field and every minute that passes, I’m a
little bit closer to the fall semester at Stanford.
We’ve been home about ten
minutes when Jackson turns into the driveway and steers the dirt bike into the
garage. From the window in his room, I watch him hop off the bike, first
setting the safety glasses across the handlebar and then his helmet on a shelf.
He strides across the yard, the sun at his back casting his shadow in front of
him.
“I’m home,” his words carry
up the stairs. “Ready to work on the bike, Dad?”
“Sure am,” Jeff’s distant
voice replies.
I sit down on the edge of
Jackson’s bed. It’s strange to listen in on them like this, to hear how they
interact. What would it have been like if Jackson had ended up with Mom, and I
had lived with Jeff? Would we be the ones having the conversation right now
about fixing up the dirt bike? I don’t even know how to ride one, much
less fix the damn thing.
The sound of rapid movement
up the stairs precedes Jackson’s entrance to the room and his eyes sweeping
over me. “Want to help us out with the bike?”
I’m dirty and sore, and
there’s no way I’m going to willingly play mechanic now too.
“Look,” he says. “I know
today probably sucked, but it would be more fun if you helped.” His voice
lowering, he admits, “Just me and Dad all the time can get a little boring.”
Despite all the work I’ve
done today, I almost say yes. Then I remember that he was the one who all but
cut off the communication between us, and a swell of resentment rises inside
me, drowning out
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