The Failing Hours(6)

The grubby kid in question doesn’t respond.

Instead, he’s busy moving farther toward the edge of the sidewalk to avoid me, putting as much distance between us as humanly possible on our walk to the park near the Big Brothers building. The kid—Kyle—balances on the curbs, walks on the grass, beneath trees, dodging and weaving his way in and out of yards along the way.

His scuffed up black sneakers offer zero tread when he takes another curb, barreling ahead by at least thirty paces like the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels—maybe they are, in the shape of…

Me.

Closing in on Greenfield Community Park, the place Violet mentioned yesterday, I try to rein him in.

“Don’t go running all over place. You should probably get back here.”

He ignores me.

“I’m fucking talking to you, kid.”

“I fucking heard you,” he smarts back, his prepubescent voice cracking with false bravado that doesn’t quite reach his posture. He adjusts the brim of his hat so he can ogle me better.

According to his file, Kyle Fowler is a fourth-grade latchkey kid who spends most of his time at the community center while his mom works. According to his file, he’s quiet, respectful, and shows an aptitude for sports, his favorite being soccer.

Soccer? Gimme a break.

But according to my observations, Kyle Fowler is a wiseass punk with a chip on his shoulder bigger than mine and a foul mouth to go along with it.

I narrow my eyes. “Hey, watch your mouth.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You watch your mouth. I’m eleven.”

I stop walking to cross my arms over my chest. “Look, if we’re going to be stuck together for the next few months, the least we can do is try to get along.”

To my own ears, I sound as disgruntled about it as he does.

His reply is one of loathing, followed by a grunt when he climbs onto the wooden picnic table and turns his back. “I don’t need to get along with you, jerk. I got myself.” He stabs a forefinger into his boney chest.

“Listen you little shit—”

He cuts me off. “I’m going to tell my mom you spent the entire time cussing at me, and then they’re going to kick you out of the program.” He flips me the bird.

“I swear to God, kid, if you don’t knock it off I’m going to—”

“You’re going to what? Tattle?”

My nostrils flare. What the hell is this kid’s problem? “Why are you in this program if you hate it so much? How fucked up is it at your house?”

“I never said I hated it and it’s none of your damn business.” Kyle pauses before directing another glare my way. His small jaded eyes cast judgment at me over his shoulder. “I know why you’re doing this. Someone is making you.”

“Whatever.” I check my phone for the time. “We have to kill an hour and forty-five minutes before I can take you back, so what do you want to do?”

He turns toward me, rolling his eyes from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Not sit in this lame park. Why did you bring me here? There ain’t shit to do. Parks are for babies.”

“I’m not taking some sloppy kid for a ride in my truck, so deal with it.”

“I’m not dirty.”

“Yeah right. I don’t know where those hands have been.”

Am I mistaking it, or did his shoulders slump? “My last big brother at least fed me when I was hungry.”

“Do I look like I care if you’re hungry?”

“No. You look like a giant butthole.”

“That’s because I am a giant butthole.” Jesus Christ, did I just call myself a butthole? How low toward this kid’s level am I going to sink?

I run a palm down my face and mentally count to five to regain patience.

As I’m doing that, Kyle pushes off the table and stalks toward the swings, dragging his tennis shoes through the rough wood chips. Instead of sitting in a swing, he grabs one by the seat and shoves it hard, sending it sailing through the air. The chains clang and hit the metal pole, creating an irritating echo in the otherwise quiet park.

“Knock that shit off,” I call from my perch on the picnic table, irritated. “You’re disrupting the peace.”

Yeah—my peace.

He ignores me and his pale, scrawny arms give the seat another hard shove.

“Hey!” My voice booms. “I said knock that shit off.”

I don’t know why I even care—he’s leaving me alone and wasting time like I told him to—but for some reason, the sound of the tinging metal is grating on my last nerve. Making me aggravated.

“Are you going to actually sit and swing on that thing, or just continue to annoy the hell out of me the whole time?” I bellow, deep voice filled with impatience.

Kyle shoots another scowl over his lanky shoulder, a storm cloud of resentment passing over his dark blue eyes before the bright rays of sun make his expression unreadable.

My jaw clenches out a labored sigh. This is harder than I thought it would be.

“Do you want me to come give you a push?” God, what am I saying? I don’t think I’ve ever pushed anyone on a swing in my entire life. Plus, he’s eleven; shouldn’t he know how to pump it himself?

“Screw. You.” He releases the seat of the green swing, resuming his stomp through the wood chips toward the play set, kicking the toe of his tennis shoes into the splintered bed of chips along the way.

He’s at the twisty slide when I check my phone again and groan. Only eight minutes have passed since the last time I checked.

I click open the Spotify app, a failed attempt to drown myself in music.

“You’re not supposed to be on your phone during our activities,” he shouts at me. “Maybe if you had read the manual, you would know that it’s strictly prohibited unless absolutely necessary to promote the quality of our relationship.”

“Oh yeah?” I shout back, closing out my apps and shoving the phone in my back pocket. “What else shouldn’t I be doing?”

“What do you care? You’ve already broken like, five rules.”

I have?

“Fine, smartass, which rules have I broken?”

Kyle stalks in my direction, scrawny arms swinging with the momentum of his stride. He stops in front of me, hands on the waistband of his black track pants. “Well for starters, you’re not supposed to be swearing around kids. Everyone knows that.”

“Would you get over it?” I cross my arms over my chest. “What else.”

“You’re supposed to tell my mom where you’re taking me.”

Jesus Christ. “Your mom?”

“Yes. And you’re not supposed to be leaving me alone.”

“What are you talking about? I’m right freaking here.”

“Yeah, but you just let me wander around. You want me to get snatched?” He throws his arms up around and everywhere, waving them in every direction to indicate all the wandering around the park I’ve let him do, unattended. “You’re supposed to be spending time with me.”

“Kid, do you even want to be spending time with me? I’m an asshole, remember? Two minutes ago you called me a giant butthole.”

Silence meets my question.

“Kid, for real?”

“My name is Kyle.”

“Fine. Kyle. What do you want to do then? Ride bikes? Skateboard? ’Cause I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to be the one dreaming up shit for us to do.”

“Skateboarding and riding bikes? Those are things you do at the park, and I just told you I hate it here.”

“I don’t have other ideas. Sorry.”

Kyle fidgets with the zipper of his threadbare jacket. “Don’t you have any cool friends we can hang out with?”

My mind immediately strays to Violet and Summer, who are probably doing something fun right now.

I shrug off the notion, aggravated that he can’t just be happy swinging on the swings and climbing on the picnic tables and crap like a normal kid.

Why does he need to be entertained?

“Maybe next time, we’ll see.” Then, “Do you mind if I check the time, oh Keeper of the Rules?”

Kyle scoffs. “Whatever.”

Ninety-seven more minutes with this kid. One hundred twenty-seven more until wrestling practice. Two hundred sixty-two minutes until I can slam my bedroom door on this shit day.

“We only have to tolerate each other for the next hour and thirty-seven minutes. Can you live with that?”

The kid stares me down, large brown eyes framed in a skinny face with pasty skin. A smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of his nose looks like dirt. His hair, unkempt and sticking up in different directions, gives him a wild air.

He inhales a breath. “You…” Lets it out. “Suck.”





Violet





Zeke hasn’t come back to the library in days. Not to study. Not for tutoring. Not for anything.

I can’t say I’m surprised.

I can’t say I’m disappointed.

I’m relieved; the whole week has been riddled with tension. Every time that door to the library swung open, I literally held my breath to see if Zeke Daniels was going to be standing there.

I know he’s not done with his paper—not even close—so I can’t imagine why he hasn’t been back.

Unless he couldn’t stand studying with me.

I wonder about it as little Summer and I walk toward a picnic area, hand in hand on our Thursday afternoon together. We easily find a table, and I set about the task of unzipping our backpacks, removing the books, paper, and craft supplies I brought along.