9

MAYBE AUDREY ISN’T GOING TO be the actual worst for the whole summer. For the rest of the day at the library, she’s actually okay. I mean, it’s not like we’re suddenly best friends or anything. Between Benny getting left behind and everything else, I almost forget what’s waiting for me back at home. Almost.

“From what Mrs. Eisenberg told me, it sounds like you and Audrey are starting to get along,” Mom says as we pull out of the parking spot at the library and head down the road to pick up Xan.

“I guess,” I say. “She’s all right.”

“I didn’t know if you’d take to sharing your turf with someone.”

“My turf?”

“You know … It’s kind of your terrain down there. Sometimes it’s hard to have someone come along and start changing things up.”

I shrug.

Mom leaves me in the car with the AC running while she goes into the Y to fetch my brother. I keep thinking about what she said as the voices on the radio debate the Providence mayor’s latest budget proposal. The person who’s trying to take over my turf—it’s not Audrey at all. It’s Phil.

At least I only have to put up with him for a few days, though. Soon he’ll be zooming off on his motorcycle, never to be heard from again, right? I suck in a deep breath. Just a few days. How many is a few, anyway? Two? Nah, that’s a couple. Three, then? Four, tops. And we’ve already survived one.

Next thing I know, Xander’s sliding into the back seat and telling us all about his day at camp and how fast he’s getting at swimming and how this one kid peed in the pool when no one was looking, and before long we’re turning down our street. I brace myself for the motorcycle in our driveway, suddenly wondering what in the heck Phil did all day.

And then there he is. Pushing the mower through our yard. My jaw tightens.

“I was going to do that tonight,” I say to Mom as we pull into the driveway. Up close now, I spot the chest hair sticking out of the top of Phil’s shirt, and the pit stains under his arms. Gross.

“Aw, Drew. He was around and he offered. This way you have more time to hang out with Filipe, be a kid for once.”

As I step out of the car, I search for evidence that he somehow messed the whole thing up. Maybe he didn’t get the edges right around the walkway. Or his lines are uneven. But I can’t find anything wrong with it.

Maybe he didn’t get to the backyard yet! Maybe I can still do that, at least. I race around the house. But when I get there, all I see are the clean, straight lines left by the mower. Something else is different too.

Not the deck. Not the back of the house. Not the shed. It’s the shrubs. All the stuff that’s grown wild over the past three years. I thought Mom liked it that way. Or that she didn’t care. But he’s gone to town, hacking it to pieces. I could’ve done that.

Why’s he helping around the house so much, anyway? Suddenly it hits me, a truth I hadn’t considered. What if Mom wasn’t lying last night when she said Phil was an old friend?

Maybe that’s all he was back then. She never talked about who her boyfriends were back in high school—not that I’d asked—and she didn’t meet my dad until grad school. Anyway. Maybe she just can’t see what’s so obvious now: that Phil had—has—a crush on her.

Somehow he found out about Dad and now he’s making his move.

Man, what didn’t he do while we were at the library all day? I’m almost afraid to go inside the house and find out. I head into the living room, and even from there the smells from the kitchen are overpowering. Curry and cumin and chicken. I curse my mouth for watering at whatever it is he’s been making. I spot the slow cooker on the counter. Everything I tried to make in that thing always ended up a pile of mush, so I gave up on it.

The door into the garage creaks open and Mom steps in. “Wow,” she says. “Smells pretty tasty in here.”

Xander races in under her arm, slipping out of his sneakers and darting toward the living room.

“One hour of screen time,” Mom reminds him. She fills up a glass of water and brings it to the door. Sweat dripping off his forehead, Phil looms in the doorframe and takes the glass of water from Mom.

“I’m going to head upstairs to change out of my work clothes,” Mom says. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone with Phil.

“So.” Phil sets his empty glass on the counter. “How was the library today? Did you read lots of books?”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t read books when you work there.”

Phil laughs. “I didn’t realize you were working already. Aren’t there laws about child labor? I thought you had to be at least fifteen or sixteen to work.”

“I don’t technically work there. Not yet …” It’s hard to explain without somehow making it sound like babysitting. Which it is not. “Anyway. I don’t get to read. Even the librarian doesn’t sit around reading books. We’re really busy.”

“Cool, cool. You know, I’ve had the chance to visit so many different libraries all over the country the past few months. It’s pretty amazing how unique they are. And some of the facilities—you should see some of the cool new buildings the architects are coming up with. You mentioned you wanted to be an architect someday, right?”

What does he want? For me to give him bonus points because he remembered me saying that last night? I shrug. “When are you going back out again on your bike?”

“Pretty soon. It’s nice to have a few days off the road. That much riding really wears on your body, you know?”

As if I know one thing about motorcycles. “Not really,” I say.

“Anyway, in the meantime, I thought your mom might appreciate having some extra help around here.”

She might have, I think, when we needed it. Three years ago. I stare up at him, my mouth still zippered shut. I want to tell him I’m onto him, but I can’t get the words out as he dorkily stares back at me.

There’s nothing left for either of us to say to each other. No more small talk to make, anyway.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, searching for an out. “I’m going over to my friend’s house,” I say, heading for the door behind him. “Across the street.”

“Don’t you think you should check with your mom first?”

Who does he think he is, my dad?

He leaves just enough room for me to squeeze by him and out the door, all without saying another word.