Free Desert Boys by Chris McCormick

With my backpack against the wall, I asked as casually as possible, “Are you about to hit me?”
    â€œAre you going to keep being friends with my dad?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I’m just working on his yard. For money.”
    â€œHe’s a piece of crap,” Drew said. “He’s a liar. Don’t fall for it.”
    â€œI’m almost done with the job,” I said. “He said he’s getting some trees.”
    â€œIt’s all a lie,” Drew said. “He makes things up. He’s full of shit.”
    The urge to defend Mr. Reuter came unexpectedly. I disassembled it, thinking of my vulnerable position.
    â€œLook,” I said, “I’m almost done with the job.”
    â€œGo ahead and finish it,” he said. “You don’t know him like I do. He only hired you because he thought we were still friends. He thought I’d come over to hang out with you. Trust me. Those trees aren’t on their way. That money isn’t on its way. He makes every-fucking-thing up.”
    A moment passed where neither of us said anything. Kids walked by in groups of two and three. He backed up.
    For some stupid reason, I said, “Thank you.”
    IX. ADDING THE FORMER MRS. REUTER TO THE “PESTER” LIST
    I added her in red because I assumed that Drew’s negative portrayal of his father stemmed from her own broken and cyclically reassessed misunderstanding of their relationship.
    Let him make up his own mind, I scribbled next to her entry.
    X. BACK TO WORK: A GUIDE
    That Saturday I headed across the street early in the morning. The sun had been up for less than an hour, but the heat started climbing without much of a wait. I held on to a yardstick I’d sneaked home from school, and took a look at the bigger side of the lawn to survey the extent of work that loomed ahead of me. Mr. Reuter had stopped caring for the grass weeks ago. By now, shaggy but burnt, the lawn looked like a field of wheat you might find behind a baseball fence someplace in the middle of the country. I could have turned and looked at the face of my house, but standing there in that yellow plot, holding this basic tool that was supposed to help me make some sort of difference, I felt suddenly that I was as far from home as I’d ever been.
    The garage door opened. Inside, Mr. Reuter held on to its red rope above his head. He said, “You’re early.”
    â€œI thought I could beat the heat,” I said.
    â€œAh,” he said. “I remember when I first learned how impossible that is out here.” He looked around, past me. “You alone?”
    â€œI am,” I said. “Drew couldn’t make it.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    â€œWell,” I said, “he said he’s busy.”
    â€œIs that so?” he said again. He batted the red rope for some time. “His mother,” he managed to get out.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “That’s my guess, too. Anyway, I’m about to measure the lawn.”
    â€œWhat a thing to say,” he said wistfully, as in a daydream. I thought he was upset with me for mentioning his ex-wife. But he was talking about something else entirely.
    â€œYou expect the word ‘mow’ there, don’t you?” he said. “And your word—what was it, ‘measure’?—your word just takes its place so sneakily. ‘I’m about to measure the lawn,’ you said. What a thing to say.”
    â€œThat is funny,” I said, not knowing how to respond. What was funnier, I thought, was that I was using a yardstick to measure the yard. I kept the joke to myself.
    â€œAbout Drew,” Mr. Reuter said, “you’re sure he’s not coming? Today, I mean.”
    â€œMr. Reuter,” I said, leveling with him the way a man should level with another man. “Drew doesn’t trust you. He’s never coming back here, I think you should know.”
    â€œWell,”