It’s the last day of school and Cody waits at the edge of the parking lot for the yellow school bus that will carry her to her place of torment for the last time this horrible year. The texting and social media posts have been relentlessly mean, but she’s gotten immune to them and to the perpetual poking, teasing insults and remorseless harrying. She never lets them see her looking upset, even when she is sitting right in front of them as they invent more and more ways to insult, offend, and demean her. Their fast-moving thumbs constantly sending evil messages to her on devices hidden beneath notepads and in sweatshirt pockets, right in front of teachers. How they trust her not to show anyone what they’ve sent is proof that Cody Mitchell is the perfect target for their animus. She’s invisible. She’s no one.
Its being the last day of school, a half day, things are fluid—teachers returning final papers, chatting and jokey, music blasting out of computer speakers in every other room, the air fairly bursting with the promise of summer. The seniors are gone; the juniors are standing tall with their elevation to seniors. Freshmen are no longer the little kids they were when they walked through those doors for the first time, frightened and shy, now sophomores armed with experience. Sophomores are fledged into juniors, at the midway point in their high school careers, and will return in the fall with all the rank and privilege of upperclassmen.
Taylor and Ryan come down the hallway hand in hand. They look like everyone’s idea of a high school couple, the beautiful people. The chosen ones. Her blond hair is loose, swinging with every turn of her head as she, with queenly serenity, greets classmates right and left. Ryan is hand-slapping and shoulder-butting his classmates, firing at them with a pointed finger, king of the little world he inhabits.
Cody is cleaning out her locker, stuffing her backpack with the detritus of the year from hell that is high school. Lost homework, scraps of sketches. A sock, a shirt. The gym shorts she refused to wear. There’s the book she thought she lost, the one she had to pay for, jammed way in the back, wedged in such a way that she has to kneel on the floor to reach it.
The blow shoves her right into the locker, the sharp edges scraping at the tender skin of her arms. She bangs her head trying to back out, and feels herself pushed back in, someone’s foot against her rear end. Laughter rackets off the metal interior of the locker. Cody kicks as she wriggles free, hoping to prevent a third shove. The laughter sounds like a jet plane taking off, louder and louder, until Cody just wants to put her hands over her ears and crawl deeper into the locker, shut the door after herself, and die.
A pipsqueak voice pipes up. “Knock it off, Ryan. That’s not cool.”
She backs out of the locker, successfully this time, and turns to face her assailant. Ryan and his squeeze, Taylor. Facing them down, that kid, the brother, Devin.
Taylor punches the kid in the arm, a sisterly gesture of sovereignty. “What? You got a crush on Miss B.J. here?” Her laughter is not queenly at all, more crow than crowned head.
“Yeah, no accounting for taste. Tay, you’d better coach him; unless…” Ryan strokes his chin contemplatively. “Dev, are you, perhaps, looking for a little head? Or is the hand more your speed?”
Devin doesn’t come up to Ryan’s chin. He’s a couple of inches shorter than his sister. He’s a kid, with a half day left as an eighth grader. A rising freshman who hasn’t transitioned into a proper teenager. Cody holds her breath. She should slam her locker door shut, stalk off, forget this last round of insult and injury. Except she doesn’t have to. “So, Taylor, how do you feel about your boyfriend cheating on you with your best friend? Kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you.” Ryan leans toward her, braces one arm on either side of her, trapping Cody against the locker.
“No, I think that Ryan is fucking Tyler. Why don’t you ask him what they were doing out at Tannery Falls. Just the two of them.”
“Shut up, you bitch.”
His face is close now; she can smell the Altoid on his breath. She doesn’t flinch. She’s got the whip hand now. “Don’t touch me.” Cody shakes the hair out of her eyes. “Don’t you ever touch me.”
Taylor steps up, grabs Ryan by an arm but doesn’t pull it away from where he braces it against the red locker. “What does she mean? What were you and Tyler doing at the falls?”
“Nothing. It’s not important. She’s a liar and a—”
“Tell her, why don’t you? Clear your conscience.” Cody smiles into Ryan’s face. His ears are red, the skin of his throat.
“Ryan. What about you and Tyler?” Taylor’s voice has gone all Minnie Mouse.
“Nothing. I swear. She’s crazy.” He shouts the words into Cody’s face.
“Go ahead, Ryan, tell her the truth.” Cody gives him an encouraging nod. It feels good. “Tell her. Ask her why Tyler hasn’t been wearing that little pink T-shirt from Banana Republic lately.”
“There’s nothing to tell, you whack job. You’re crazy. Taylor, she’s crazy.”
What’s crazy, Cody thinks, is how afraid he is of Taylor.
Taylor lets go of Ryan’s arm. Flips her hair back over her shoulder, affects her best look of boredom. “Yeah. She’s nuts. Mental case. Loony tunes. Let’s go.”
Cody watches them, arm in arm, continue their regal progress down the long freshman hall. “Yeah, but I planted some doubt, didn’t I?”
Devin shoulders his backpack, gives Cody a halfhearted smile, and follows.
* * *
Carl doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that this Hispanic kid with the tattooed neck, further embellished by clunky fake gold chains, is being asked to do most of the chores that he had been given over the winter and somehow never found the time to accomplish. Carl’s “So what?” attitude is actually a relief. I hate confrontation, and really didn’t want to have to tell Carl that he was fired. This half measure is just fine. Mingo needs some guidance for the part of the rehab work that isn’t just demo, and Carl is a pretty good teacher, showing the boy how to properly cut the Sheetrock, how to mud it to cover the seams. Mingo, for his part, seems to enjoy the tutelage. I can’t afford two handymen, however, so it’s also a relief when Carl decides that the trout are calling and vanishes once again into the wild. If things work out with Mingo, Carl will have quite the surprise the next time he returns to pick up a few bucks between disappearances.
The little cabin is coming along nicely. Standing in the open doorway, I watch Mingo roll paint over the Sheetrock, pleased with the color I’ve chosen for the room, not quite white, not quite yellow. By taking down the non-load-bearing wall between the living space and the tiny kitchen, the whole effect is one of airiness and space. Pristine. The old sprung couch and dubious wicker chairs are gone, replaced by a faux Arts and Crafts–style set. Once the trim painting is done—a complementary buttercup yellow—I’ll hang Roman shades, replacing the dusty, musty curtains that fairly disintegrated in my hands as I pulled them down. The other half of the cabin is an en suite bedroom. Unlike the two-bedroom cabin, this cottage was never meant for families, but for honeymooners. Unfortunately, I don’t have the resources to make the bathroom into anything more interesting than a clean, bright, and functioning facility—no Jacuzzi, no high-pressure multiple showerheads, just a step up from the showerheads in the other rooms.
I’ve invested in several inexpensive souvenir photographs and put them in cheap frames, and I hold one of the framed photographs against the newly painted wall. I’m disappointed. It seems small, lost, against the creamy expanse. Well, I can’t use these here. And the budget—funny word that one, as if I’ve been thoughtful about the expense—is blown.
I had hoped to be able to offer Adam this cabin for his most recent trip, even though he isn’t staying long and the cabin is meant for long stays, a week or more. It felt like a nice thing to do, give my most loyal guest a treat, but the place isn’t ready for inspection, so no guests till the building inspector grants the certificate of occupancy.
* * *
My friend and I met up during our before-bed outing. His boy and my man stood chatting quietly as Dawg and I made sure that the perimeters were safe. I confess that my attention was not entirely on the task at hand; rather, the voices, quiet but intense, had caught my ear, and I kept closer to the pair than I might normally have done. Just in case I was needed. I shouldn’t have worried. My compatriot, although seemingly distracted by the night scents, moved himself closer to the humans as well, leading me to believe that he, too, caught the whiff of discord.
The voices grew marginally louder, then dropped back quickly, as though the humans understood that they were venturing close to making a ruckus like some dogs do, invariably inciting more ruckus from other dogs who get excited by the noise. I don’t mean to suggest that they were snapping and snarling. It was more like a little fear aggression on the one hand, and dominance on the other.
* * *
Adam sees Mingo standing slouched against the side of the building. In the moonlight, his hood gives him the outline of a monk. His dog bounds over, wriggling in pleasure at seeing Adam, greeting him as an old and dear friend. Lucky and Chance give each other a good going-over before getting down to business.
“Hey, Mr. March.” The kid pushes himself away from the wall, pushes the hood back. “S’up?”
“Hello, Mingo.” He has no answer for the “S’up?”
When Skye told him of her decision to hire Mingo as the new handyman-cum-housekeeper, Adam was mostly able to bite his tongue, forbidding himself to expound at length on why this might not be a good idea. This is no innocent youth suffering under unfortunate circumstances; this is a crackhead who may have even fought his dog to feed his habit. A kid on probation. How was she ever going to trust him in people’s rooms? Adam could see that Skye expected him to say something about it. She had that hooded eye, tensed jaw of a woman ready to do battle, ready to defend her decision—bad or otherwise—and her right to have made it. Which is why he finally responded with the only civil remark he could come up with: “It’s your decision.”
“Yes, it is. He’ll be fine. He just needs a chance.”
And right then he was ashamed. It was as if there were an overlay of his past and present. It wasn’t Skye’s voice he heard; it was Gina’s.
* * *
“Mr. March, I’m guessin’ that you probably ain’t on board with me bein’ here, but I gotta tell you that I’m good. Like I told Ms. Mitchell, I’m clean, and I’m going to stay that way.”
“I’m sure you will.” He can’t keep the flatness out of his voice, his skepticism.
“I owe her. She the first person in however long to treat me like a human being.”
A bullfrog croaks with a tympanic thump. Adam listens for the reply, and there it is, answered in kind from a distance.
“She’s a good person. But, Mingo, it takes your making a decision you can stick to. Change comes from the inside.”
“I changed. I did. I have. You helped, too. You pulled me out of that place and found my dog. Took care of him. I owe you, too.”
“You don’t owe me. And I’ll be honest: I still don’t think Lucky’s best place is with you.”
“It is if that place is here.” Mingo flips the hood back over his head. “And his name is Dawg.”
Suddenly, Adam realizes that the dogs are close by, back from their saunter down the hill, their eyes fixed upon their two men, Chance’s on him, Dawg’s on Mingo. Tails wag.
“I’ll make a deal with you. If things fall apart, you give me the dog. Dawg. You won’t have to worry about him.”
“I ain’t makin’ that kind of deal with you. You make it sound like I’m a fuckup. Maybe I was. But now I’m not. I’ve already told my boys not to look for me. I’m done with that life. I’m stayin’ here as long as Ms. Mitchell wants me to be here. My dog with me.” Mingo faces Adam. He’s a little shorter, lots more wiry. One hand is tucked into the kangaroo pouch of his sweatshirt and the other is in a fist by his side. Adam takes an involuntary step back.
Dawg nuzzles his way into Mingo’s fist, and the hand opens up to grasp the dog’s moist muzzle. The tail begins to whip from side to side. The dog pats his feet against the dry grass, dancing in joy at his person’s touch. The dog loves this boy. It really all comes down to second chances. Giving them, and getting them. Adam needs to remember that.
Gina knew what he had done, knew what he was capable of, and still she gave him the opportunity to prove himself to her. She taught him how to ask for forgiveness.
“Mingo, I’m sorry. You’re right. This is your transcendent opportunity and I’m raining on it.”
“I like that. Transcendent opportunity. Sweet.”
The hand comes out of the pocket, and Mingo teaches Adam how to execute a proper homeboy handshake.
* * *
But then, as humans are known for doing, they stopped talking and touched hands. Immediately the air around them cleared and both smiled, not in fear-aggression fashion, but more like gently wagging tails. All is well. Dawg and I gave each other a quick sniff and simultaneously decided to reconnoiter the farther edge of the property. Our people watched us disappear into the darkness.