#Chapter6
Stretching on forever in clear waves of blue, the sky above seemed to be without cloud or blemish, a vibrant watercolour façade that birds soared through with a lazed ease. Like diamonds, sunlight fell in glistening streams, blinding, both beautiful and painful, encasing the deep, dark grass in a sparkling image that made it appear as though shattered glass lived along its surface.
Watching the overhead sky, it was easy to understand why so many people adored this kind of weather. The air held a delightful concoction of scents, the sweet, earthy nature ones, and the delicious, man-made ones. Blooming flowers and the tummy-gurgling scent of barbeques, the world seemed a gentler and kinder place.
It had been an early observation of mine that I wasn't most people, and the appeal of summer wasn't one that called to me; my hair would curl from sweating, and my skin would flake and peel, burning all too easily.
It also did something cuckoo to my mom. Summer was always the season that she seemed to get crazy ideas stuck in her head. Most of the year she left me alone, but summer was usually the time she tried to push me to make friends and try new things. She always found some kind of excuse to try and get me out of the house.
Like the grass needed cutting.
Which was how I ended up standing in the box of a garden, face screwed up into a pinched glare and arms folded across my chest as I glared at the mechanical, grass-cutting monstrosity with as much loathing as I could muster. It was old, and dust clung to the orange casing from the stint in the garden shed that it had been forced to endure. The wire was tangled, and I hadn't been able to unwind them, so I had plugged it in and hoped that it reached.
Not that I was in a particularly big rush to turn it on in the first place. I found the lawnmower to be loud and dangerous, and it scared the almighty crackers out of me.
Isaac found it absolutely hilarious.
Mom didn't; she had clicked her tongue in disapproval when I had tried to create a thousand excuses as to why I couldn't cut the grass. She rarely got cross with me, and more often than not, she found my ability to screw up any given task amusing. Today, she hadn't. She had warned me that I needed to grow up and start acting my age, and I needed to help out around the house more.
Which hurt a little, but I had tried not to let it show. I knew that she had just been tired. There were plenty of jobs I would have willingly done—jobs that weren't scary and put me at risk of having my fingers eaten by the cruel, growly machine. I could have dusted, or washed up, or mopped the floors.
Scratch that. I had been banned from mopping after the incident last time. I had made a gas chamber worth of additives, tipping bleach, washing up liquid, washing detergent and spraying the water with Fabreeze, before spilling the whole thing all over the kitchen floor on my first attempt to dunk the mop in. Isaac had said I had to put the cleaning stuff in the water so that the floor got nice and clean, but apparently that hadn't been what he had meant by it.
Long story short, it was now Isaac's job to mop.
With an angry sniff, yanking the Boston Red Sox baseball hat that my dad had given me a birthday or two ago further down on my head, I approached the lawnmower. Throwing off waves of intimidation, the thing tried to stare me down. It would have won if I hadn't wanted to avoid disappointing my mom.
There wasn't a lot of grass. It had grown to the point that it concealed my ankles when I stood in it, and it took up two-thirds of the available space. A tiny paved path ran horizontal to the double sliding patio doors that led to the kitchen, and at the opposite side of the garden, another, larger slabbed area sat, housing the run-down little shed, and a tiny table with two chairs either side of it. In-between, grass ran.
If I had quit whinging and just gotten on with it, I would have already been done, but it was a tedious task, and every ounce of whine power was required. Lazlo watched me from the fence, my mom's black and white cat, his glowing green eyes boring into me. He was more of an outdoor cat, and would vanish for days at a time, but the summer drew him back do he could laze in the garden.
If my mom was expecting pretty, she had turned to the wrong son. The grass was patchy and questionably done by the time I had finished, proudly wiping sweat from my brow. I was wearing only a vest and shorts, but even still, it felt as though I was wearing far too many clothes.
/"See, I can do big boy stuff,/" I praised myself as I unplugged the nasty thing, only for it to somehow tangle around my feet whilst putting it away. I ended up tripping and kissing dirt, elbows bashing across the ground and skimming my knee.
Tears welled in my eyes. My lower lip trembled. Part of me wanted to rush inside and shove the injury in my mom's face, showing her what a hazardous task she had set me.
I didn't. Instead, I sulked all the way to the kitchen, sniffling, only settling once I was back in the cool clutches of the kitchen. The air conditioning was on, and it was like sweet kisses across my skin, leaving behind a trail off cool relief.
The kitchen table was in line with the patio doors, leaving only the thinnest of paths to get out into the garden, and the rest broke off into a narrow rectangle, appliances and the fridge at the other end. Our house was small and cramped, or affordable, as mom liked to call it, but the kitchen had always been one room that had clung to life; warmth flooded every crevice it had to offer, an 80s like theme spreading through the place, red and white teaming together to create a pleasing mosaic.
The fridge was my favourite part of the kitchen. A single door, red beast that lived in the corner, lost beneath a multitude of magnets and out-dated school pictures and reports. Inside, the goooood stuff lived.
Opening it, I instantly found forgiveness in my heart. Mom had recently been shopping and the fridge was packed, holding enough food and junk to last us the next two weeks, and maybe even more, if Isaac didn't eat everything.
The banana and strawberry smoothie cartons were just for me. Mom didn't like them, and Isaac had a strict diet of fizzy pop and water. I had tried to tell him how unhealthy his pop addiction was, as he guzzled back at least three cans of Coke a day, but he had only laughed and ruffled my hair.