The Failing Hours(7)

“How’s your mom doing?” I ask, taking out a spiral drawing pad, holding it down when the wind kicks up.

“Good. She’s tired but she only has one…what’s that called when you go to school?”

“Semester?”

“Yeah. One of those left. We’re getting an apartment with Daddy or something so we can move out of Grandma and Grandpa’s house when she graduates.”

“An apartment! That’s exciting!” I give her shoulders a squeeze. “Will you have your own room?”

She squeezes her tiny eyes shut. They pop open a second later, excited. “I think so!”

“Aw, that’s great!”

And it is. Summer’s Dad, Erick, just completed his degree and is interning at one of the huge corporations in the city, one of the largest employers in the county. He’s thriving, Summer’s mom Jennifer is on her way to graduating, and their little family is finally going to be together.

“Hey,” Summer interrupts my thoughts, poking me in the forearm with her pencil. “There’s that boy.”

I raise my head.

Give it a shake, fully expecting to see an actual little boy, but instead see Zeke Daniels and a child.

“W-what the heck is he doing here?” I wonder out loud apprehensively, tension growing in the pit of my stomach.

“Playing?” Summer suggests hopefully.

Except he’s not.

Zeke strolls forward across the grass, brows furrowed toward the rambunctious kid literally running circles around him. His nose is in his cell phone.

“Would you knock that shit off?” I hear him loudly complain. “You’re driving me insane.”

“You’re the crabbiest human alive!” the kid shouts, climbing on a rock and jumping off, jabbing at the air ninja style. “You suck!”

When his feet hit the ground, the kid takes off running, shoes kicking up pieces of sand surrounding the slide.

“Grow up!” Zeke yells after him.

It’s almost comical, and I bite back a laugh.

He halts in his tracks when he spots Summer and me at the picnic table, his eye roll visible from here.

“I am not following you,” he says cantankerously, approaching the picnic table. I busy myself with rearranging the contents of Summer’s tiny Barbie backpack so I don’t have to look at him directly.

I hand her glittery princess stickers and a half-empty container of orange flavored Tic Tacs.

“I-I didn’t think you were following me.” I shoot him a wan, almost patronizing smile. “I’m hardly the kind of girl that inspires a guy like you to follow her around.”

Oh god, what on earth possessed me to blurt that out?

Thank god Summer interrupts, pulling on my shirt sleeve.

“Vi, can I go play with that boy?” Summer asks, already half off the bench and on her way to little Zeke Junior, who’s angrily stalking around the jungle gym.

Wow. The two of them are a fine match, and I have to wonder how Zeke Daniels was chosen when Big Brothers was reviewing their volunteer applications. Organizations like Big Brothers don’t just take anyone. They have standards. Expectations.

I highly doubt Zeke meets any of them.

“Sure, sweetie.” I call out after her, “Be careful. No running!”

Sigh.

Zeke gives me a peculiar look, eyes trailing my movements, especially when I flip my French braid over my shoulder. His light eyes settle on the pink silk flower stuck in the rubber band.

He shakes his head and stares off at the boy, now sitting on the ground in the sand with Summer. They’re working together, molding a small pile into a hill and jamming sticks in the ground around it, like a castle with a wall.

Zeke’s cell phone pings, and he palms it but doesn’t check it.

“H-How is your biology paper coming?” I will my stutter to disappear, but it’s not listening today. “A-Almost done?”

“It’s coming.”

I blink, trying to decide if there’s an innuendo hidden in there somewhere.

“Do you want me to take a look at it before it’s due?” I venture. “Proof it for you?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’m sure it is, too, but let me know if you change your mind.”

I glance toward the young boy, who’s now gently helping Summer onto one of the swings. “We should get them over here and get Summer going. I know they’re having fun playing, but she wanted to make her mom a birthday card.”

I shout for them to rejoin us.

“We should probably just leave; he didn’t want to come here, I had to force him.”

“So why did you?”

“Because I don’t care what he wants?”

I stare, shooting him my best skeptical look. I’m trying to wade through his bullshit, assuming it’s waist deep, but don’t call him on it.

“Besides,” Zeke continues. “I don’t know where else to take the little shit.”

Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.

“What about the batting cages?”

He raises his brows. “Do I look like I play baseball?”

“No, but I-I bet you’d be good at it.”

“Damn right I would.”

Talk about an ego.

“Are you into sports?” He must be with a body like that. I ask as casually as I can, trying not to ogle him.

“Yes I’m into sports.”

“W-Which ones?”

“Wrestling.”

“You wrestle?”

“Yeah. Ever heard of it?”

The sarcasm is palpable and changes the tone of our conversation. Tension fills the air.

“Yes. I guess I didn’t realize they had it at Iowa.”

I didn’t think it was possible for him to look shocked, but he does. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes. I guess athletics are the last thing on my mind.”

I’m spared from his reply when the kids reluctantly join us, dragging their feet along the grass.

“The park is lame,” the boy grumbles.

“Yeah!” Summer agrees, jumping on the kid’s bandwagon.

“I heard you’re not a fan of the park,” I tease with an easy laugh, setting a piece of paper, pencils, and stickers in front of Summer so she can start on her project. “But maybe we can think of some other activities for the two of you to do together. How does that sound?”

“It’s lame but he had no other place to take me.”

“There are a million places to go!” I turn toward Zeke. “Let’s discuss some more ideas.”

“No.”

Oh brother, what a grouch.

I ignore him, vowing to come up with a fun list later, and turn to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Well Kyle, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Violet.” I hold up a sheet of paper, offering it to him. “I know you’re older, but do you want to craft? Your new friend is Summer, and she’s making her mom a card.”

Kyle scrambles onto the bench and eagerly snatches the paper out of my hand. “Sure! I can make one for my mom, too. And Summer’s not the worst—for a girl.”

I laugh again. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”

Zeke snorts. “A backhanded one.”

Kyle looks up, confusion on his face. “What’s a backhanded one?”

“A backhanded compliment is saying something nice and being rude at the same time.”

“I wasn’t being rude!”

I step in, spreading out some more paper to give the kids a broader selection, and to inhibit the argument brewing between a twenty-one-year-old guy and an eleven-year-old child.

“Paper? Crayons?” Zeke groans. “Ugh, seriously? Jesus. How long is this going to take?”

“I-is this not okay?” I pause. “Do you have somewhere to be? If he needs to get back…”

“I don’t have to get back!” Kyle replies helpfully, already digging into the crayons.

“Fine.” The storm across Zeke’s face darkens as he crosses his bulky arms. “Make it snappy.”





Zeke





“Hey Mom.” Kyle bounds up to his mother two excruciatingly long hours later. Two painful, irritating hours spent watching him craft, color, and glue with Summer and Violet at the park.

“Hey kiddo. How was it?” She reaches for a lock of his brown hair, running her fingers through a short strand with a grin. “Is this glitter?”

“Yeah, we got into a glitter fight.” Sheepishly, the kid hands her his drawing of a lion. “Here, I made this for the fridge.”

While she studies the picture—a blue piece of construction paper covered in crayon and yellow, furry balls—I study her. Young, with frazzled brown hair, her black mascara is smudged under her eyes. Tired. Drained.

Kyle’s mom extends a hand toward me, and I take it, pumping it up and down. “Hi, I’m Krystal, Kyle’s mom.”

Normally, when I shake anyone’s hand, I squeeze it, but Krystal’s fingers feel frail and weak. Cold as ice. The bones brittle as a bird’s.

Exhausted.

She ruffles her son’s mop of unkempt hair with hands that know a hard day’s work. “Sorry I’m a little late, pal. I had to wait on Donna to take over my shift.”

“Are you a nurse Mrs. Fowler?” I wonder out loud.

“It’s Jones. Ms. I was never married.” She frowns. “And no, I’m not a nurse. I’m a waitress at the truck stop off Old 90 and just worked a double. You must be the new Big.” Krystal looks me up and down critically. “What did you say your name was?”