Craving's Creek

Chapter 1-2

It’s hot out here. I’m sweating and the sweat stings my eyes. Just need to run the mower over a patch of high grass near the shed, and then I’ll collect my five dollars, drain a glass of Mrs. Bastone’s sweet tea, and that’ll be that. She’s a nice old lady and I’d mow her lawn for free, but she insists on paying me.

“Thank you so much,” she says as I’m turning off the rusty mower. She stands on her porch and holds out a glass for me. She’s still shy around me. Never really looks me in the eye. My mother says it’s because she thinks I’m handsome.

“Thanks,” I say before draining half of the glass. I wipe my forehead with the bottom of my T-shirt. “You look nice today.”

She’s eighty-five years old. Wiry and flat chested with very smart eyes that look at you through thick glasses. She’s all veins and brown spots. But I think she must have been beautiful a long time ago.

Beauty is like a scent. It clings to you even when it’s gone. If Alistair’s beauty had a scent, it would probably be lemongrass.

“Here,” Mrs. Bastone says. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

I finish the sweet tea and hand her the glass back. “I’ll see you next week.”

“School is over for you kids now,” she says, keeping me a moment longer. “Are you gonna have a job this summer, Rydell?”

She’s the only one who can get away with calling me Rydell.

“Yeah, gonna help my dad with his business and all.”

She leans in a little, closing her dress at the neck with her thin, knotted hand. “Is your father having any luck with his water filters?”

Uh, no. My dad and Lady Luck parted ways a long time ago.

But he tries so hard, and I can’t help believing that maybe, just maybe, this business, the new water filtering business, will be the one that finally works out. For the time being, he still sells contraband cigarettes to make ends meet. I’m not ashamed of that. But I don’t like to talk about it.

“I think it’s about to take off,” I say, a little discouragingly. “Just a matter of getting people interested.”

She goes back inside and comes out with a white plastic flask. I recognize it as ours. My dad uses them to collect water samples around the neighborhood. Then he tests the water sample and fills out a chart, which he later leaves on our neighbors’ doorsteps to let them know just “how terrible their drinking water is” and “how badly they need” his product. It’s not exactly a scam. The water isn’t too good around here. My dad says one day everybody’s going to be buying water.

Mrs. Bastone seems embarrassed. “I know your dad says I have lead in my water, but you see, I’m still here, and as healthy as an ox.”

I take the flask and my dad’s technical sheet from her. “Don’t worry about it.”

I hate the way people pity my dad.

As I’m walking back home, I hear someone calling me. “Hey, Ryde.”

I look over my shoulder and see Sheryl and her friend walking up to me. Sheryl is wearing her old plaid shirt and ripped jeans. Her black hair needs to be introduced to a hairbrush. Maybe I should tell her it’s 1994 and time to lose the woodcutter look. “Where you going?” she asks, stopping real close to me. “You’re all sweaty and shit.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Isn’t that the truth.

“We’re going to eat these in the park.” She shows me her stained hand. In it, she holds ten or twelve sour jawbreakers. “Wanna come?”

There’s nothing to do around here but draw obscene things on our jeans with Sharpie markers, or sit around the swings, stuffing sour candy into our mouths to see who’ll last the longest without spitting it out.

I’m not in the mood for either of those stimulating activities. “I gotta go home and babysit.”

“Yeah?” Sheryl stares at me. She’s beautiful in a vicious way. The kind of girl who might make it out of here. She’s bored enough to try and motivated enough to actually succeed. “Ever since Thing One and Thing Two were born, you’re always stuck at home.”

“Not true.” I play tough. With girls like Sheryl, you have to. “Anyway, I’ll see you at the party tonight.” I step back but nearly trip myself up on my big feet.

Sheryl smiles and looks over at her mute friend. I know the girl. She used to date a friend of mine. The girl doesn’t say much and she’s a total nutcase. My friend Luis told me so. The two girls exchange a look I don’t like and strike off for the park.

Why am I going to this party anyway?