Free Desert Boys by Chris McCormick Page A

he said. He cracked his knuckles and let all the air out of his nose. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.” He pulled down on the rope until he disappeared.
    That last thing he said was true: In order to measure and carve out a near-perfect circle in a front lawn with the equipment afforded to me, you need patience. First you have to lay the yardstick along the border of the grass and the sidewalk. From the smaller side of the lawn, composed now just of dirt, collect a handful of small rocks, most of which will crumble in your hand if you make a fist over them. As you pivot the yardstick along the length of each side of the big lawn, place one of those soft rocks at every point for measuring purposes. Then do the math to figure that the yard spreads out just over fourteen feet wide and about twelve feet up to the house from the sidewalk. The paved walkway up to the front door changes the shape of the lawn to something a bit more geometrically complicated. Basically, though, you’re off to a good start. The next step would be to find the center of the lawn. There, step on your shovel a couple of times to mark an X. Use the yardstick again from the center to a number of equidistant points in different directions. Leave enough room to make arcs between those points to complete the circle. Keep using those soft rocks to mark your points. Gather more if you have to.
    Take a break for water. Drink just a little from the pitcher; leave plenty for later. Sing a dumb song you’ve made up: Thirsty from the sun, and work’s just begun.
    Now you’re ready to dig.
    XI. ON THE ACT OF FINISHING
    I can’t remember the last plunge I took with the shovel on that lawn. What I can remember is the first time I saw the end closing in on me. I laughed out loud. Nothing maniacal, just a single bark of joy escaped. I startled myself with it. You can blame the heat or the overinflated importance of completion to a twelve-year-old kid with low self-esteem. Either way, I laughed, and kept digging until the digging was done.
    I went to the front door to bring Mr. Reuter outside. I knocked and waited. I rang the doorbell, looking over my shoulder at the circle of dirt I’d created. The circle wasn’t perfect from an aerial view, but its mistakes were subtle, and its positioning was centered well. Corners of yellow grass still hung around the circle’s edges. That was an easy fix, I figured, once the trees and their protective shade came into place.
    Beyond the yard I saw my own house. Its grass had become overgrown in my time across the street.
    My knocking turned violent. In the window, I could see Mr. Reuter’s shadow pacing back and forth. I yelled his name. I said, “I know you’re in there!”—which, because I’d heard it so many times in movies and TV shows, came out flawlessly. Finally I moved around to the driveway, where the pitcher, now empty, sat on its oil stain. I waited for some time, a good amount of time. I kicked the garage door. A car passed while I did it.
    XII. THE CLOSEST I’D EVER BEEN TO A FISTFIGHT (UPDATED)
    I saw Drew at school the next week. I went over to him at lunch and said, in front of all his friends, “You were right. Your dad is an asshole.”
    He punched me in the eye.
    XIII. THE FLOTILLA LANDS ON COMSTOCK AVENUE
    Before giving up, I tried Mr. Reuter a few more times with no success. Some weeks passed. In that time, I’d explained the black eye to my parents by saying a girl at school had accidentally opened a door in my face. Even my mother, the amateur journalist, was too embarrassed for me to ask any follow-up questions.
    Then came the trucks. They rolled in on a windy Saturday morning. There were three of them, white dump trucks with blue block letters: WATTS LANDSCAPING . Each had been loaded with sod and landscaping accessories, including a number of boulders and bags of what I found out later were decorative wood chips. A group of