Rusty Summer (3 page)

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Authors: Mary McKinley

BOOK: Rusty Summer
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“Hey, dude!”
“Hey, dude!”
Paul looks good; he's gotten his growth spurt and he's taller than me, if just barely. He's getting cut from all the weights he's lifting. He is at the dojo constantly. Hai!
“How was your practice?” I ask.
“Good! I'm learning a new kata.”
“Cool!” I say because I have no idea what that means, but his tone makes it sound excellent.
“Yeah. I'm working with a
b
.
It's awesome.”
“Like a bow and arrow?” I am clueless.
“No, like a long stick. You swing it around and then you do, like this series of uh, stances, and then you stop and . . . bow. I don't know. That's what
I
do.” He shrugs in embarrassment, because now everybody is looking at him. “I dunno.” He shuffles. Then he remembers something.
“Hey, Rye, is Beau going to come over anytime soon?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Because he was helping me with my math last week and I was like getting it, for a change. He said I could hit him up whenever, 'cuz he's doing a ton of math for nursing school and this is like no-big-deal-math for him. But it is for me! It's bad! And now there's new stuff. And it's worse!”
He cracks me up, he's so woebegone. Paul is still
so
not a scholar.
I give him a little love-pop on the bicep to cheer him up.
“Yeah, I'm sure he'll come over and help you. He needs to come talk to Mom about clinicals, and rashes and diarrhea treatment and what all—'cuz nursing's fun!—and he gets to see these guys.” I indicate the crew before me.
Saint Teresa pipes in. “You should both come over for dinner.”
Leo jumps like she's been poked. So food-focused.
“And eat what?” She leans forward, fascinated.
My mom glances at us and adjusts her tone. “Well, something you could have,” she tells Lee. “How about fish? Does Beau like fish? And maybe some asparagus and little new potatoes?”
Leonie jolts like twenty feet, then steadies herself on the stool.
“Oh, no! Omg! Not potatoes! I will blow up like a giant cow!”
I stop and take a good look at her after she says that. I can't really tell because she has a sweatshirt on, but she looks pretty skinny in her hands and face.
“How's the diet going there, Namu?” I ask her.
She pulls up short and eyeballs me suspiciously.
“What does that mean?!” she snaps.
My mom laughs.
“Don't be mad, Lee. That was the name of this cute killer whale on TV.”
Wrong. I can't even get a rant in about captive marine mammals before Leo implodes.
“
What?!
Did you just call me
a whale?!
Omg, Rylee! As if I don't go through enough with those snotty stuck-up bitches at the agency! They are so mean! And now you're busting on me too! Whatever! Thanks!” Her chin starts to quiver.
“Dude, seriously, I called you Namu because you look so skinny! I was being sarcastic, or ironic, or whatever.”
“Ohhh.” She's all relieved. Suddenly all smiles. She feels her skinny face. “Really? You think so?”
“Yeah. How much have you lost?”
“Nine! Almost halfway!” She's so happy.
I sort of grimace.
“Lee, I vote don't lose any more. You look good as it is. Any more dieting and your cheekbones are gonna break through your face. Seriously, you look . . . um, great!”
She rolls her eyes. Her face clouds again.
“See, you just don't get it, Rusty!” (Which I'm like, yuh, Leo, you're right, I don't!)
She gets so despairing as she explains, trying to make me see how repulsive she is. “You don't understand! I'm just girlfriend-pretty! I want to be model-pretty! Like them!”
Paul and Mom and I look at her blankly.
“What does that even mean?” I ask cautiously.
“It means I'm HUGE!!” She wails, “I AM a whale! WAY fatter than them!” She hisses through clenched teeth. “I'm a fat, ugly . . . gross, giant, fat . . . HOG! And a fat COW! And a giant, fat HEIF—”
“Jeez, ol' MacDonald!” I interject. “What else? A giant fat border collie?”
“Dude! Quit it! I totally am! Hideously FAT!” She stops herself from bawling and looks at me, stricken. “Oh, wait, Rust. No offense . . .” She sounds all quavery. I can see her changing gears—from mentally waddling through an obese barnyard to crawling over the broken shards of remorse.
Which makes me laugh out loud. She looks so guilty. She thinks she's hurt my feelings.
“Leo! Ahh! Omg, you are so funny, though usually by accident! It's cool, I forgive you.” Then I crack up again at the look on her face. “I kid! Seriously! I'm not tripping! We're good!” I try to get her to smile. “It's fine! You know I'm all about that bass!”
Leo looks at me and bursts into tears. She leans her head against the window frame.
“Honey, you need to have something to eat,” my mom tells her.
“An apple,” she sobs. “That's all I can have.”
Paul brings her one in silent sympathy. She sniffles as she takes it, and then attacks it.
It's gone. Poof.
“You could have another,” Paul urges her, tentatively.
“No, but thanks.” Her color is better suddenly. I didn't realize she was so pale.
I lean in for the lifestyle lecture.
“Leonie, you know what? I don't think this is good for you, this modeling. It's making you too skinny and seriously,
super
grouchy.”
“Rusty, I don't tell you what to do!” she snarls, predictably.
“Well, if I start eating apples like I'm Cookie Monster, you can.”
“No, shut up, listen—if I try hard enough, I can have this, Rust. You know?
We
can. Seriously, I could get totally world famous and then I can get everything for us guys.” Her gigantic, turquoise eyes are glittering maniacally in her cat-thin face.
She sees it . . . The Golden Ring. And she's going for it. For all of us. She is so generous.
And loving. And a loony.
Paul redirects. This means he clears his throat and cracks his knuckles. We look at him.
“So, anyway, I have till Thursday for this assignment. Can Beau come over before then? Like tomorrow or the next day? Else I'm pretty sure I'll flunk.”
“You better not,” Mom warns him.
“I won't, 'cuz Rylee is gonna get Beau to come over. Right, Rye?”
“Righto, bro.”
Later, when I'm putting the laundry in the van, my mom comes outside with me.
I have our old van and it's still running great. When we got home from our road trip to San Francisco my mom said she would just keep the money I left when we first took off, and we could share the car till she found one she wanted. Last fall, at the beginning of my senior year, she started work. The first thing she got was this cute used hybrid.
It's a green car
and
it's the color green.
So my mom got the green car and I have the van, full-time. I will get my own green car as soon as I can afford it but for now I make do.
Besides, it's good for practice, as my friends take up a lot of room.
(That's right; me, Rylee Winters, telling you that my
friends
take up
a lot
of room. Yes, they're large, but also there are
a lot
of them!! Finally, you guys. Finally I have a lot of friends!)
I put my hamper of fragrant sweats inside the van and slide the side door shut. My mom and I stand silently, gazing at each other beside the van. She smiles and rubs my coat sleeve.
“Remember to find out what's a good night for dinner, okay? And thank Beau for helping Paul. Your brother struggles a lot with math.”
“I know! And language arts and social studies and—” I laugh, bagging on him.
“Stop it, missy! Not everyone can be a genius.” She gives me her non-fierce frown, which is the “you're not funny” variety of her “I really mean this” frown.
(My mom has recently declared that I'm a genius. She just decided it, which cracks me up. I've never had my IQ tested. At this point, I don't even care, I just like that she
thinks
I'm a genius.)
“And tell Beau if he needs any more books, they are here for him, okay, honey?” She smiles.
Mom is loaning Beau her nursing books so he doesn't have to buy the same ones she has, which are the required reading for nurses' training. She and Beau study together too. It's very endearing. My mom, the study hall monitor.
And she looks
so
much happier than a couple years ago! Healthier too. She says it's sure easier to lose weight now that she jogs around the hospital all day. She ordered one of those pedometers so she can see how much she walks. It's not here yet but my estimate is at least five-plus miles a day. It's a
huge
hospital.
She holds out her arms and I give her a hug. I can totally see over the top of her head now.
I let down my guard. She squeezes me close for a sec. She smells like baby powder and Mentholatum and Pine Sol and cinnamon toast . . . her familiar, forever perfume. I sniff . . .
The scent of love.
Inhaling, I recall tender memories of her devoted mothering.
Even when I am old I will remember the way my mom smells: comforting and eternal.
“K, Mama, gotta go! I will see you very soon. I'll call you after I talk to Beau.”
“Okay, honey; drive carefully. See you soon!”
 
I make it to my house in about five minutes. The van isn't even warm yet.
When Beau and I found this house at the beginning of senior year we realized the drawbacks but liked that it was less than three miles from my mom's house, and about three blocks from school. Close to everything!
It's still dusk when I arrive because the days are getting longer. I pull into the driveway, get the laundry, and go inside. I go upstairs with the basket to put my clothes away and leave Beau's in the hall by his door. I never mind doing laundry for him if it means we'll waste less energy. Also, he's my homeboy.
I head downstairs and Beau is on the couch. He's on the phone. He waves. Very animated. He's talking to this guy he knows from school. I wander into the living room while they talk. Beau looks at me and makes the “I'll wind this up” motion, and I shake my head like, “you're fine.”
I listen in as he talks. He's practically hollering so it's not hard.
Obviously this guy asked him about his birthday because Beau says “May twenty-eighth,” which is in a few days. I keep forgetting it's so soon.
Beau's gonna be eighteen! We are going to have a party for him here and invite his parents over. His mom is getting the cake.
Beau looks good. He's gotten taller and filled out a little and he's even cuter than he was last year. He looks happy. He has come to terms with the guy he is and going to be and he's good with that guy. He likes himself and he likes his life.
Guess what? At the risk of sounding trite—
It Got Better!
 
Beau stretches out on the beat-up sofa, just blabbing away, now carrying on about subcutaneous shots (which I have learned means aim for the fat and use the little needle).
I sit down in an equally beat-up chair and covertly watch him. He is laughing like a maniac.
I listen to them squawk on for a while. He finally hangs up and looks over at me.
“Hey.” He waves at me from like two feet away.
“Hey.”

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