Page 70 of Summer Lessons
The false and desperate brightness of Terry’s voice made them all cringe. “My friends and I cleaned up, Mom. Look—we’ve got a backyard now. Took all day.”
“Why would you want to do that? It’s just gonna get crapped up again. Waste of time.”
From across the driveway, they all saw Terry’s agonized look toward them as they watched the exchange.
“I want to make the place good so you don’t have no trouble with it,” he said. “You know, so I can go get an apartment and you’ll be okay.”
“You can’t live by yourself,” she snapped. “You’re a kid. Jesus, you’re covered in dirt. And you brought a bunch of people I don’t know here? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I’m fixing the bathroom next weekend,” Terry said, his voice bleak. “The toilet’s leaking, and Mason almost fell through the floor.”
He had, in fact, rolled his bad ankle again. He’d been trying to move without crutches, at least to the bathroom and back, but he’d needed Terry’s help to get to his chair.
“Who the hell is Mason?”
“He’s my….” Terry’s voice faltered. “He’s my friend, Mom. He’s my uh—you know.Friend.”
Mason grimaced, and Skipper squeezed his shoulder. Well, as coming out went, it could have been worse.
“I’ll just see about that,” the woman promised. She stuck her head back inside the car and said something to the driver—it must not have been too friendly, because the car peeled back almost before she could shut the door. “Bitch,” Terry’s mom said succinctly. “Like I wanted to sit next to her retarded dog anyway.”
“Mom, that’s the only person left who will talk to you.”
“Shut up. Who’s thisfriendof yours?”
Terry’s mother came forward into the circle thrown off from the cage lights. She wasn’t bundled as she had been at Skipper’s place, and her hard-dyed blond hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail.
She was wearing a plain blue sweatshirt and ill-fitting blue jeans with a cut Mason remembered moms wearing when he was in the third grade. Her face was the same shape as Terry’s, and her eyes were brown behind the squint, but her mouth was tight and pulled in at the corners, and her nose wrinkled with distaste.
Poor Terry. Mason wasn’t sure what had twisted her, but the process seemed to have been irrevocable and highly painful for anyone in the vicinity.
“Mom, this is, well, my soccer team, really. That’s Skip and his boyfriend, Richie—”
“You brought fags to my house?”
It was like water crashed over them all and congealed on their skin in an icy rime.
“Mom, that’s fuckin’ rude,” Terry said after a shocked moment. “They’re myfriends, dammit—”
“Why are you hanging out with them? Do you want me to thinkyou’rea—”
“Yes,” Terry snarled, grabbing her arm. “Yes, that’s fine. You think what you want.”
“Terrence—”
“Whatever. I just asked these nice people to come toyour houseand clean up so when I leave I’m not leaving you in a shithole. Now unless you want me to leavetonight, you need to tell them you’re sorry.”
For a moment they locked gazes and stood, furious and shaking, in the center of the frigid, foggy driveway. Finally she turned her sour gaze to the group of men who had labored for her home.
“Sorry,” she snapped, then looked back at Terry. “Let go.”
“Now tell them thank you,” he growled.
“I am not—”
He shook her. Not hard, just enough to emphasize that he was there.
“Thank you all for doing something I didn’t ask you to do,” she said nastily.
