Free Damage by A. M. Jenkins Page B

yard, in front of the shed that once served as an equipment room back in your mother’s horse-training days. Now it holds fertilizer and lawn equipment and whatever else shouldn’t be left out in the rain. Next to it is the barn, which used to be a stable and now provides shelter for the few calves Becky raises for 4-H.
    “Don’t worry about the mower,” you tell Curtis. “I’ll put it up later.”
    “I’d rather take care of it right now. If my mom looks out and sees it sitting there, I’m going to get the lecture on taking care of other people’s possessions. That’s one of the long ones.”
    “’Kay.” You shrug. “Help yourself.”
    “Thanks.” The screen squeaks open and Curtis’s lean sweaty arm reaches in to snag a key hanging on the peg next to the door.
    The screen bangs shut. “Hey,” you call. “Go ahead and mow our yard, too. That’ll show you can really take care of other people’s possessions. Go on—I’ll call your mom and tell her how good you did.”
    Curtis pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, squints up at you. “Sure,” he says. “And I’ll call your mom and tell her how you’re going to come over and paint our front porch.”
    “How about if we just call it even?”
    “Done,” says Curtis, and continues on to the tack room.
    You dig in the fridge for a Coke, and pull out a Dr Pepper, too, for when Curtis comes back. That’s the way it’s always been; whenever he drops by he comes in to shoot the breeze. Besides, you’re tired of skimming through those CDs. You just don’t want to have to look Heather in the eye and admit you didn’t bother to listen to them.
    You hear Becky coming down the hall, singing one of the songs you just played, one of Heather’s songs.
    “I ain’t invisible, baby, so don’t look thro-o-ough me. Our love is possible, baby, so come over to-o-o me.” She walks into the kitchen just as you hoist yourself up to sit on the counter to wait for Curtis.
    “That’s one of those songs that gets stuck in your head,” you observe—and it is. A minute ago it was just one of dozens you’ve heard this afternoon, but now, thanks to Becky, you’ll probably be humming it in your sleep tonight.
    “I’d rather have that in my head than ‘It’s a Small World After All.’ Or the commercial for Joe Ryan Chevrolet. You want me to sing that for you instead?”
    “No,” you tell her. “Don’t. Please.”
    Becky grins at you and takes a deep breath—but happens to glance out the window over the sink. She decides not to annoy you; apparently she’s been stricken with asudden desire to straighten the sink area.
    First she rinses the plate you left on the counter earlier and places it carefully in the dishwasher. Then she unfolds the dishcloth that sits by the sink, shakes it out, and refolds it. All the time looking out the window toward the tack room.
    When Curtis stomps up the back steps, she says real loud, “Is that Curtis Hightower? Quick, lock the refrigerator before he inhales a week’s worth of groceries.”
    Curtis doesn’t bother to respond, just steps inside to hang the key to the tack room back up. You don’t say anything, either, but hold out the Dr Pepper.
    “Thanks.” Curtis takes the can from your hand and leans back against the counter by the refrigerator. He pops the top, takes a long drink. Flecks of grass and dirt are stuck to him, mostly on his legs but bits on his arms and chest, too.
    Becky makes a big deal out of refolding the dishrag again—carefully, eyes down.
    Curtis finally lowers the can and eyes Becky. One corner of his mouth goes up a little. “Hey, Becky. What’s this I hear about Robby LeBlanc being madly in love with you?”
    Becky’s brows start to come together. If it was you, she’d let you have it with both barrels. But with Curtis, all she says is, “He is not.”
    “Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” Curtis says, deadpan. “I thought for sure you’d want to run your handsthrough that