An hour passes and the temperature rises. I take a break and sit down on the driveway, staring at the dirt lining the fence. In my head, I count how many holes I’ve dug compared to how many more I need to and just as I go to lean back on my arms and curse the North Carolina sun for being so damn hot, something cold taps against my arm. I face it quickly; it’s a glass of iced water. Becca stands above me, blocking the sun. I look back down at the glass again and take it from her hands. “Thank you,” I say, but I’m talking to her back because she’s already walking away.
I down the entire thing in one go, set the glass down next to me, and a moment later the cold sensation’s on my arm again.
A new glass.
Same Becca.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even non-verbally respond as I take it from her. She picks up the used glass and walks over to Tommy with a plastic cup, hands it to him, and walks away.
So I do what anyone with a curious mind would do; I stare at the fence, down the water, and set the glass next to me. And then I wait.
This time, I see her shadow before I see her. Apart from that, she doesn’t make her presence known. She simply replaces the empty glass with a full one and does the same with Tommy’s.
I repeat the process.
So does she.
Tommy laughs.
He thinks it’s a game.
To me—it kind of is.
I drink my third glass of water in two minutes and wait.
After a while, I hear the screen door slam. I turn around to see her sitting on the porch steps, a tray of glasses and two jugs of iced water set down beside her. I face the fence again, trying to hide my smile.
“More!” Tommy shouts.
I turn and see her start to stand. “It’s cool,” I tell her, standing up faster than she can. “I got it.”
She sits back down as I gather our empty cups and walk them over to the tray. I fill them up slowly just so I can prolong her presence. “Fanks,” Tommy says when I hand him back his cup. She watches him and from the corner of my eye, I watch her. When Tommy’s done, he hands her back the cup. She places it on the tray and stands up. I think she’s going to go back inside but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks over to the flower pots at the top of the driveway and for some unknown reason, I follow her.
Squatting down, she inspects each of the plants; the flowers, the leaves, even the stems. Then she looks up at her window, her eyebrows pinched in concentration. She picks up a pot and places it about a third of the way down the driveway, then looks over at me. She holds up her hand as if asking me to wait and I nod in response because her eyes told me to.
A moment later her bedroom curtains open, and I mean open. Not just the tiny gap that I normally see her between. She disappears a second before returning, pointing to the phone in her hand, the same time my pocket vibrates with a text.
Unknown: Can you move the pot back a couple feet?
Joshua: How did you get my number?
Unknown: Grams.
Joshua: Oh.
Unknown: So?
I look from my phone and back up to her and give her a cheesy-as-hell thumbs up before picking up the pot with one hand, the other sending a reply.
Joshua: I’ll walk backward. Just raise your hand when you want me to stop.
After reading my text, she returns my cheesy thumbs up with one of her own and I start taking small steps back until she tells me to stop.
When she comes back out, she silently goes through all the pots and lines up what must be the ones she wants to see from her bedroom window against the fence line. This only takes a few minutes and when she’s done, she turns to me. “I think maybe we should wait for my grandmother to come back. I don’t want them there if she doesn’t. I don’t want to upset her,” she says, her voice knocking all sense out of me.
Again, I agree, because her eyes tell me to.
Becca spends the rest of the time watching me dig holes from her bedroom window, only now she doesn’t even try to hide it.
When Chazarae comes home and asks about the plants against the fence, I just point to Becca’s room.
Chazarae smiles.
I smile.
And then I plant those flowers with more attention and care than I’ve ever planted anything before. When I’m done I look up at her window. She’s already watching me, not a single emotion on her face. I wave for her to come down and she gives me another cheesy thumbs up. She shows up with her camera in her hand and without a single word spoken, spends the next hour taking pictures while I watch her and continue to dig holes, not just for the plants, but for myself, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more compelled by anything or anyone in my entire life.
4
-Becca-
envy verb
desire to have a quality, possession, or other desirable thing belonging to (someone else).
My grandmother doesn’t work which means she’s home a lot. And when she’s home she likes to ask a lot of questions. I don’t like to answer them. So instead of feeling bad when I walk away or pretend like I don’t hear her, I just sit in my room and stare at the wallpaper.
Josh works and most of the time he takes Tommy with him. But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays he stays here. And Wednesdays are my favorite of all the days. Tommy calls me Becs. I like it. And I like him. I told him that. I also told him he was my best friend. He agreed that I was his. So now we’re best friends. Friends who can communicate without talking. When I whisper, he thinks it’s a game and whispers back. When I actually do speak, he doesn’t look at me like I’m a freak.
I am a freak.
But I like that he doesn’t know that.
Josh pulls into the driveway and the second the car’s stopped he looks directly up at my window. I know this because I’m watching him. I quickly move behind the curtain to hide my smile. I’ve stopped biting my thumb when he catches me now because it doesn’t feel wrong to be watching him anymore, so I no longer feel the need to punish myself with pain for doing something bad.
“Your dad’s home,” I tell Tommy, who’s sitting on the floor of my bedroom drawing. I like being alone with him so we spend a lot of time in my room. I don’t like the looks my grandmother gives me when she sees us together. I can tell by the way her brow bunches and her lips pull down to a frown that, in her head, she’s coming up with more questions that’ll inevitably be left unanswered.
I kneel down in front of Tommy and start packing the crayons.
He whispers, “Can I show Daddy my drawings?” and I nod and gather all fifty pieces of paper, the majority of which have a single jagged line through the middle.
Voices from downstairs filter up to my room and then footsteps thud up the stairs. I know it’s Josh because the steps are loud and heavy. My grandmother creeps around like I’m an injured animal and I’ll attack if spooked.
A panic sets in at the sound of his steps and then escalates when he knocks on the door. I look at Tommy—but all he’s doing is smiling—a smile identical to his father’s. Tommy answers because I’m too busy trying to look preoccupied with putting the crayons back in their box.
“Hey, bud,” Josh says to Tommy. “Did you have a good day with Becca?” He uses a voice suitable for talking to kids.
I down the entire thing in one go, set the glass down next to me, and a moment later the cold sensation’s on my arm again.
A new glass.
Same Becca.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even non-verbally respond as I take it from her. She picks up the used glass and walks over to Tommy with a plastic cup, hands it to him, and walks away.
So I do what anyone with a curious mind would do; I stare at the fence, down the water, and set the glass next to me. And then I wait.
This time, I see her shadow before I see her. Apart from that, she doesn’t make her presence known. She simply replaces the empty glass with a full one and does the same with Tommy’s.
I repeat the process.
So does she.
Tommy laughs.
He thinks it’s a game.
To me—it kind of is.
I drink my third glass of water in two minutes and wait.
After a while, I hear the screen door slam. I turn around to see her sitting on the porch steps, a tray of glasses and two jugs of iced water set down beside her. I face the fence again, trying to hide my smile.
“More!” Tommy shouts.
I turn and see her start to stand. “It’s cool,” I tell her, standing up faster than she can. “I got it.”
She sits back down as I gather our empty cups and walk them over to the tray. I fill them up slowly just so I can prolong her presence. “Fanks,” Tommy says when I hand him back his cup. She watches him and from the corner of my eye, I watch her. When Tommy’s done, he hands her back the cup. She places it on the tray and stands up. I think she’s going to go back inside but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks over to the flower pots at the top of the driveway and for some unknown reason, I follow her.
Squatting down, she inspects each of the plants; the flowers, the leaves, even the stems. Then she looks up at her window, her eyebrows pinched in concentration. She picks up a pot and places it about a third of the way down the driveway, then looks over at me. She holds up her hand as if asking me to wait and I nod in response because her eyes told me to.
A moment later her bedroom curtains open, and I mean open. Not just the tiny gap that I normally see her between. She disappears a second before returning, pointing to the phone in her hand, the same time my pocket vibrates with a text.
Unknown: Can you move the pot back a couple feet?
Joshua: How did you get my number?
Unknown: Grams.
Joshua: Oh.
Unknown: So?
I look from my phone and back up to her and give her a cheesy-as-hell thumbs up before picking up the pot with one hand, the other sending a reply.
Joshua: I’ll walk backward. Just raise your hand when you want me to stop.
After reading my text, she returns my cheesy thumbs up with one of her own and I start taking small steps back until she tells me to stop.
When she comes back out, she silently goes through all the pots and lines up what must be the ones she wants to see from her bedroom window against the fence line. This only takes a few minutes and when she’s done, she turns to me. “I think maybe we should wait for my grandmother to come back. I don’t want them there if she doesn’t. I don’t want to upset her,” she says, her voice knocking all sense out of me.
Again, I agree, because her eyes tell me to.
Becca spends the rest of the time watching me dig holes from her bedroom window, only now she doesn’t even try to hide it.
When Chazarae comes home and asks about the plants against the fence, I just point to Becca’s room.
Chazarae smiles.
I smile.
And then I plant those flowers with more attention and care than I’ve ever planted anything before. When I’m done I look up at her window. She’s already watching me, not a single emotion on her face. I wave for her to come down and she gives me another cheesy thumbs up. She shows up with her camera in her hand and without a single word spoken, spends the next hour taking pictures while I watch her and continue to dig holes, not just for the plants, but for myself, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more compelled by anything or anyone in my entire life.
4
-Becca-
envy verb
desire to have a quality, possession, or other desirable thing belonging to (someone else).
My grandmother doesn’t work which means she’s home a lot. And when she’s home she likes to ask a lot of questions. I don’t like to answer them. So instead of feeling bad when I walk away or pretend like I don’t hear her, I just sit in my room and stare at the wallpaper.
Josh works and most of the time he takes Tommy with him. But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays he stays here. And Wednesdays are my favorite of all the days. Tommy calls me Becs. I like it. And I like him. I told him that. I also told him he was my best friend. He agreed that I was his. So now we’re best friends. Friends who can communicate without talking. When I whisper, he thinks it’s a game and whispers back. When I actually do speak, he doesn’t look at me like I’m a freak.
I am a freak.
But I like that he doesn’t know that.
Josh pulls into the driveway and the second the car’s stopped he looks directly up at my window. I know this because I’m watching him. I quickly move behind the curtain to hide my smile. I’ve stopped biting my thumb when he catches me now because it doesn’t feel wrong to be watching him anymore, so I no longer feel the need to punish myself with pain for doing something bad.
“Your dad’s home,” I tell Tommy, who’s sitting on the floor of my bedroom drawing. I like being alone with him so we spend a lot of time in my room. I don’t like the looks my grandmother gives me when she sees us together. I can tell by the way her brow bunches and her lips pull down to a frown that, in her head, she’s coming up with more questions that’ll inevitably be left unanswered.
I kneel down in front of Tommy and start packing the crayons.
He whispers, “Can I show Daddy my drawings?” and I nod and gather all fifty pieces of paper, the majority of which have a single jagged line through the middle.
Voices from downstairs filter up to my room and then footsteps thud up the stairs. I know it’s Josh because the steps are loud and heavy. My grandmother creeps around like I’m an injured animal and I’ll attack if spooked.
A panic sets in at the sound of his steps and then escalates when he knocks on the door. I look at Tommy—but all he’s doing is smiling—a smile identical to his father’s. Tommy answers because I’m too busy trying to look preoccupied with putting the crayons back in their box.
“Hey, bud,” Josh says to Tommy. “Did you have a good day with Becca?” He uses a voice suitable for talking to kids.
