Free The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo Page A

dandelions are going to seed.”
    â€œMy lawn? My dandelions?”
    â€œAnd now that you’re here, I’m sure the dogs would like to go back home.”
    â€œWait a minute, nobody said anything about taking care—”
    JJ shuts the door. I hear the lock turn.
    â€œShit!” I pound on the door, but the only thing that gets me is a chorus of barks from within. Wonderful. I stomp off the porch and walk next door.
    My grandmother’s house is similar in size to JJ’s except that it’s redbrick rather than tan, and the porch steps and trim could use a coat of paint. And of course the yard needs to be mowed by someone who isn’t me. But there’s a wide, welcoming porch, windows with shutters, and a big maple tree in the front. It looks like what a kindergartener would draw if handed a box of crayons and instructed to draw a house. All that’s missing is scribbled smoke rising from the chimney.
    The lock opens easily, and with a nervous flutter in my belly, Istep inside. I find myself trying to be quiet; this feels like breaking and entering, not coming home.
    I flip the switch near the door and am relieved to find the electricity still on. I open the drapes and a window to let in some light and fresh air. There’s a small blue sofa, a wingback chair upholstered in a floral brocade, and next to that an old sewing machine. A grand piano takes up the rest of the small living room. Everything looks mostly clean, but there’s a faint odor of mothballs and something sweet, Fig Newtons maybe? Whatever it is, it smells like old people.
    I dump my stuff on the coffee table and make the downstairs circle—living room to dining room to kitchen. Through the window over the kitchen sink, I notice a detached garage, and let out a little “Whoop!” Everyone knows what belongs in a garage, right? I hurry outside and after several minutes at the fence, struggling with an extremely uncooperative gate, I open the garage door.
    Shit. No car. Half of the garage is filled with lawn and garden supplies, the other half—the one that, judging from the oil stain, did at some point house a car—now holds only a bike, pink with a banana seat and a white basket on its wide handlebars. Un-fucking-believable. Standing here in this dimly lit garage, it takes very little imagination to hear Queeg’s voice whispering, Now you’re up a creek without a paddle . His voice in my head is laughing as he says this, by the way.
    When I step back outside, I’m unpleasantly surprised to see JJ in his backyard, standing next to the chain-link fence that separates the properties.
    â€œDid you find the lawnmower?” he asks.
    I fight my way through the weeds to him, saying, “I think the yard looks fine. If you don’t like it, feel free to mow it.” In truth, the yard is a mess—weeds, old piles of dog crap, cigarette butts. I’dnever admit that to him of course. When I finally get to the fence, I point at the two squatty animals standing at JJ’s feet. “What exactly are those supposed to be?”
    â€œDogs.”
    â€œThey’re pretty ugly.”
    â€œThe smallest one farts a lot.”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œAre you ready for me to bring them over? I’ll just grab their food—”
    â€œNo no, not now. I have some things to do.”
    â€œThings? What sort of things?”
    â€œErrands.”
    He gives me an unpleasant smile. “How’re you going to manage that?”
    â€œFuck you. I’m very resourceful.”
    Cue dramatic exit. I spin on my heel and take a few quick steps toward the house, only to discover that my feet have somehow become tragically tangled in an evil spiky vine that winds through the tall grass. I lift up a knee, and the barbs embedded in my jeans pull a whole wad of greenery along with me. Next step, the same.
    I look back at the neighbor-from-hell. He’s grinning like an