The Evolution of Ethan Poe

by Robin Reardon

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In the space of a few months, sixteen-year-old Ethan Poe's life has become a complicated mix of facts, theories, and hypotheses. Things he knows beyond doubt: his parents are divorcing, his older brother Kyle is exhibiting alarming behavior, and his best friend is turning into a spiritual fanatic. Then there are the shifting uncertainties-including his feelings toward his father and his desire to both blend in and stand out in his rural Maine hometown. Most pressing of all, there's his attraction to Max Modine, a boy he wants to know much better than he does.

Despite Ethan's initial reluctance, he gets pulled into a heated and sometimes violent conflict about whether to introduce Intelligent Design into science classrooms. Family and friends are turning against each other, school is a battleground, and Ethan will have to take a stand. Because some facts are irrefutable and some bonds unbreakable, even when they can't be seen. And once Ethan finds the courage to become who he was meant to be, the outcome could be absolutely extraordinary. . .

Praise for the novels of Robin Reardon

"Stirring. . .thoughtful and convincing." -Publishers Weekly on Thinking Straight

"A compelling story well worth your time. . .Reardon is an author to watch." -Bart Yates, author of The Brothers Bishop on A Secret Edge

Release date: January 28, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

I wish my mom’s divorce lawyer wasn’t so freakin’ hot. The man is gorgeous. On the other hand, maybe it helps keep my mind off of what’s really going on. In any case, it’s distracting.

So is my stupid brother Kyle’s recent little outburst, the one where he came up with a totally unique way to gear up for the start of school. I don’t have a clue where he got this idea, but just last week, he buys one of those giant bags of ice cubes from the Store 24 next to Nick’s Pizza in that string of about five stores out on Route 154. He clears some space in the middle of the toolshed that Dad built in the backyard four years ago, plunks the bag of ice in some old tin bucket he got from God knows where, cuts the bag open, shoves his right hand in, and sits there. And sits there, until Mom panics because she doesn’t know where he is, makes me call all his friends looking for him—no luck with that—and finally gets in her car to scour the area. I wander into the yard, the phone from the kitchen in my pocket in case Kyle calls or Mom does. And I hear a noise from inside the shed, like broken pottery sliding across a surface.

I pull open the door, and there he is, back against the shaky support for a shelf attached to the side of the shed. Kyle’s hand is deep into melting ice cubes, his teeth gritted with determination.

“What the fuck!”

“Ethan! Get out!” His voice is shrill, panicky, and too much white shows around the brown of his eyes.

“What are you doing? Get your hand out of there!” Whatever he thinks he’s doing, it can’t be good. I step over old green plastic pots, terra-cotta shards, a bent trowel, swirls of stiff green hose worn in places with the crisscrossed fibers exposed. Kyle is seventeen, a year older than me and just as skinny, but more than one year taller. Or maybe I’m more than one year shorter. Anyway, I’m trying to yank his arm to get his hand out of the ice, and he’s fighting me. Finally I give up and instead attack the bucket so I can spill the contents. He fights this, too, but he has only the one hand to work with, so I win.

Feet sliding on tumbled lumps of ice, he runs from the shed toward the house, his right hand curled against his navy blue God Is Now Here T-shirt. From what I can see, the hand looks like the claw of some dead creature. I follow, dialing Mom’s cell number as I go, and let her know I’ve found Kyle. The universe must have been conspiring to bring everything together, because she’s pulling into the driveway when I call.

Mom’s no lightweight; she’s tall like Kyle and solid, and between the two of us we manage to drag him out of his room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Mom threatens to tie him to the chair if he doesn’t stay put, and she takes the plastic bucket she uses when she mops the kitchen floor and starts to fill it with lukewarm water. You don’t spend your whole life in central Maine without knowing how to treat minor frostbite, and she hasn’t moved more than a few miles from where she was born.

I can tell by the look on Kyle’s face that he’s in pain now that his hand is warming up. It couldn’t have been too badly frozen, or it would have been longer before the pain set in. Mom doesn’t care about the pain, evidently. She rants at him as water fills the pail in the sink, one hand on her broad hip and the other now flying into the air, now landing on the faucet, now pushing strands of dark brown, unmanageable hair away from her face, ineffectively trying to tuck them into the frayed red elastic that’s holding some of it in check.

“Of all the damn fool things! You boys are supposed to be helping me! Have you forgotten that? Now that that low-life father of yours isn’t here. Kyle Poe, what the hell did you think you were doing?” Mom was probably cute when she was young, with a round face and dark eyes that sparkle when she’s in a good mood, but right now she looks like one of the Furies we studied in Greek mythology.

Through gritted teeth, Kyle’s only response is, “Don’t say damn. Or hell.”

Of course this sends Mom into a new fit. “I’ll say whatever the hell I want to! Ethan, put a chair beside your damn fool brother.”

I comply, nervous because Mom doesn’t usually swear this much; she must be more than mad. She sounds almost afraid. She lifts the pail, now heavy with water, and half waddles to the chair I’ve set beside Kyle. It hits the wooden seat with a liquid thunk. Mom grabs Kyle’s right arm above the wrist, the curled hand now less white than pink with the blood returning, and lowers the claw slowly, half inch by half inch, into the water as Kyle gasps and grinds his jaw.

Water level halfway up the forearm, Mom stands straight, both hands on hips now, and glares at him. “Talk to me, Kyle. What did you think you were doing?”

His words halting with an effort not to reveal his pain level, Kyle says, “Matthew five, verse thirty: ‘If your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off, and throw it away from you. For it is more profitable for you that one of your members should perish, than for your whole body to be cast into Gehenna.’ ”

Mom looks confused. “And how on earth did you trip over your right hand, I’d like to know?”

If she doesn’t know what he means by “stumble,” I sure do. My right hand has brought me to my back on the bed or pressed against the tiled shower stall many times in the last few years. And the “member” in question isn’t at the end of my right arm. But unlike Kyle, I don’t have a problem with either member. I look for opportunities to stumble, every day. Every night. But Mom doesn’t know what Kyle means. She prods, “Well?”

Kyle just shakes his head, and seeing how much pain he’s in, Mom finally gives up and practically falls into the fourth chair at our ancient Formica-top table, red with gray and black rounded arrowheads scattered across the entire surface. Most of the stuff in our house comes from other people’s yard sales. Only recently has it struck me how out of place the straightbacked wooden chairs look around this relic. The chairs themselves aren’t new—far from it. But at least they match each other. And they look more at home on the battered, wide pine boards of the floor than the aluminum legs of the red Formica table. Honestly, you’d think we didn’t have any money. We aren’t rich, I don’t mean to say that. But we could afford some decent kitchen furniture. And I know there’s enough money put away someplace to give both Kyle and me a good start at college, though we’re both expected to contribute to that. As for the secondhand stuff, Mom’s just really big on “living light on the land.”

Mom stares at Kyle. I watch her uneasily and glance occasionally at my brother’s strained face, eyes shut. Everyone seems to avoid pointing out that Kyle hasn’t explained himself further. Maybe Mom has figured out what he means. Finally she says, “Honestly, Kyle, going to church is one thing. Punishing your hand . . .” Her voice trails off, and Kyle doesn’t do anything to fill in the blanks.

We sit there like that, with Mom getting up a few times to add more warm water to Kyle’s pail, before I start getting restless. “I’m gonna clean up the mess in the shed,” I throw over my shoulder on my way out of the kitchen.

With an ancient stubby broom I sweep the melt-softened cubes and water out through the shed doorway, my mind barely focused on what I’m doing. Low-life father. If your father is low-life, what does that make you? Middle-life? And that’s only if your mother is high-life. Whatever that means.

I collect the broken pot pieces in the bucket, my irritation with Kyle growing deeper and closer to real anger with the clang of each shard that lands. He’d started to get all holier-than-thou sometime in June, as far as I can remember, not long after Dad left. Dad hasn’t gone very far, what with his public works job with the town. He rents the room over the Barstows’ garage where Mr. Barstow’s mother had stayed until she died, the kitchen nothing more than a tiny sink, a small stove, and a half refrigerator on a couple of square yards of linoleum in the corner.

Dad gave Kyle and me this big lecture just before he got in his pickup truck to drive away, about being men now and shouldering some of the responsibility around here. I remember thinking, Do men ever want to cry as bad as I do right now? But Kyle looked really serious, and he must have taken things quite to heart. Because the first thing he did was start going to church every Sunday. Not long after that, he took it upon himself to commit to paper the chores we’d each always done without the formality lent to them by virtue of being written down and attached to the side of the refrigerator, where they’re now held on display by a magnet shaped like the Christian ichthus—that primitive fish symbol the early disciples supposedly used. Then he started ordering me around, reminding me pointedly when my chores weren’t done, adding to the list as he felt necessary to make sure everything was cared for. Protected. Right.

It doesn’t help that Mom seems to alternate between approving of Kyle’s responsible approach to life and being amused by it. I just want him to knock it off. I mean, who does he think he is, my father or something? Maybe she’ll think again after today’s little exhibition.

I was never into church that much, but in the past year or so it’s actually begun to make me nervous. That is, once I realized what the Bible says about me. About people like me.

In a skirmish with the old hose—stiff and unwilling to let me curl it into a mass I can tie and drag to the pile going to the dump—anger wins out over irritation. I curse under my breath, partly at the hose, partly at Kyle. He’s ruined things for me, just when I’d got up enough guts to talk to Mom. I’ve been waiting for the right time, you know? Because, I mean, you can’t just dump this onto your parents. Parent. It’s hard enough finding the courage to tell your mother you’re gay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell my dad. And I sure as hell don’t plan to tell Kyle, so this afternoon looked like a good time. Mom went out last night to meet Jimmy Korbel, just for a few beers, not a real date; the divorce isn’t final yet. But she came home in a great mood. And then when it looked like Kyle was away someplace for the afternoon, it seemed like this would be the day. So I spent a little time in my room, white earbuds jammed into the sides of my head, collecting energy and attitude from my favorite music, but before I could quite bring myself to turn off the iPod and go look for Mom, she found me. That’s when she told me that Kyle was missing and I had to help find him. End of my plan. And now I don’t know now when I’m going to say anything.

Getting ready for school is part fun, part chore for me. If I hadn’t just bought a lot of Goth-inspired stuff, we’d have gone shopping for back-to-school clothes. But Mom’s attitude is, “You made that bed, Ethan. Now you lie in it.” I don’t get it; does she think I regret the choices? Hardly.

But I do need a new winter coat. So the day after Kyle’s weirdness she says she and I need to go on a shopping trip. She stares at me a minute when I tell her I want to get a used coat, from a store in Bangor I heard about called This Time For Sure. When it sinks in that a used coat will be cheaper, she nods, no doubt picturing a maroon parka or some such hideous, practical item. And of course, it appeals to her habit of reusing other people’s cast-offs. She says, “We’ll go there after my next appointment with Mr. LeBlanc.”

This is the hot lawyer I mentioned. Guy. That’s what he told me to call him, not Mr. LeBlanc, even though that’s how my Mom refers to him rather pointedly when she talks to me. Guy, pronounced in the French manner. Rhymes with Gee, as in Gee Whiz. Rhymes with Jeeeeesus-God, but that man makes my pants too tight every time I think of him.

He’s not that old, either. I mean, I’ve never done it with anyone, but the idea of doing it with him is not so far-fetched. He’s just tall enough to be a couple of inches above me, and I love the way his dark hair falls in waves around his head, with that one curl that looks like it’s accidentally placed just off-center of his forehead, like he doesn’t know it’s separated itself from the rest of his hair, like he doesn’t know it helps make him gorgeous. Plus, I half suspect that he’s gay. That’s my fantasy, anyway.

So when Mom and I show up for her appointment the last weekday before school starts, I’ve got my tightest black jeans on, the ones where the big teeth on the silver zipper show because there’s no fabric flap over them, and my black T-shirt with the holes I put in it and then carefully frayed to look like they aren’t deliberate—kind of like that curl. And when I tuck the shirt into the jeans, one of the holes is almost but not quite right over my right nipple, so it peeks out depending on how I position myself. I want Guy to notice this.

Mom tries to make me change before we leave the house, of course. “Ethan, for God’s sake, put on something decent!” So I top the look with a white shirt, a couple of sizes too big, not tucked in so I can take it off or just let the fabric fall aside as I want. We’re already a little late, or I think Mom would demand more of a change.

Guy is as gorgeous as ever in a light-colored suit and a blue and white striped shirt with white collar and cuffs. He’s the Light to my Dark. Even with such beautiful clothes I wish he’d take them off. I want to know how much hair is on his chest. For starters. I take off my white shirt as if to open the bidding, and Mom glares at me. Too bad. And it pays off. I swear, at least three times my little peek-a-boo trick catches Guy’s eye, in just the right spot. Just the right way.

He’s got to be gay. I step out of his office with a smile I hide from Mom.

A bell over the door at This Time For Sure tinkles when we walk in. Mom is quickly buried in a section of fiber-fill parkas, which is what I expected. She calls me over a few times to try something on, and each time I go over without protest, saving my energy for when I’ve found something worth fighting for. And I find it.

There’s this long blue-black (of course) coat, kind of like a navy pea coat on steroids. The collar can flip up high to cover my ears, the sleeves are ideal at just a tad too long, the pocket linings are actually intact, and on the back—seemingly out of character with the rest of the coat—in light gray, between shoulders and hips, is this huge bar code design.

Wacko. Perfect. I bury my hands in the pockets and wander over to where Mom is still digging into stuff I wouldn’t wear on a bet, and I wait for her to look up. Finally she does.

Her eyes roll up and then close for a nanosecond, she makes a clucking noise with her tongue, and she says, “Ethan, you can’t be serious.”

I’ve been through enough of these scenes to know that when she says, “Take that thing off this minute” or “Yes, dear. Very funny. Now try this on,” she isn’t going to go along with it. But when she says, “You can’t be serious,” if I play my cards right—which means patiently trying on anything she wants me to—I might get my way. She hands me another couple of parkas, and I try each one on, quietly but deliberately putting my long pea coat back on each time, until she finally takes a good look at me and says, “How much is that thing, anyway?” She fingers the dense wool while I tell her it’s only seventy-five dollars. She pulls the pockets inside out. She opens the coat and examines the lining and looks for how well it’s attached to the coat. She takes it off me and goes over it for moth holes. She smells it in several places. There’s just nothing wrong with this coat. And the parka prices are only a teeny bit less.

I know it’s over when she folds it over her arm and says, “If I buy you this thing, Ethan, you’re going to wear it. Do you hear me?” I nod, barely breathing. “What are you going to wear shoveling snow?” I look at her, surprised; Dad always plows the driveway, and all Kyle and I ever have to do is the walkway and the steps. “Don’t look so shocked. Did you think your father was going to keep doing everything for you even though he doesn’t live with us now?”

Given that I have something I want to talk her into, it seems counterproductive right now to point out that she’s the one who made him leave, not me. “We still have that old parka Dad doesn’t wear anymore, the one with the stains.”

Her look at me is half glare, half warning. “Find yourself something to wear on your hands.”

I want to hug her. Maybe the grin I throw her is enough.

The gloves are another great find. There are thin black leather ones with no ends in the fingers, and a thicker pair of black suede ones with full fingers, and I can wear them together. The whole lot costs only fifteen dollars.

Mom says, “Are you happy?” I grin and nod. “Happy enough to let me look around a little for myself?”

By the time we leave, I’ve picked up another pair of black jeans and a black leather jacket that’s nearly free, and Mom’s found a shearling coat that she doesn’t take off until she’s paid for it. I’m thinking we might come back here again and wondering how much cred I’ve got with her now.

On the way back to the car I notice something I hadn’t seen on the way here, probably because I was looking just for This Time. Right next door there’s a body art place. Photos of tattoos and piercings pretty much cover the front windows so you can’t see in very well. I’ll bet they don’t always want you to see what they’re doing to people in there. One close-up of a nipple with a barbell through it makes me gasp. It had been one thing when I let my best friend, Jorja Loomis, push a needle through my frozen left earlobe last July, but this? I mean, wow. Then I look hard at one tat, a yin-yang circle. I have a T-shirt Mom bought me last June, white with a red and white yin-yang symbol on it. I can’t remember ever wearing it; if it had been black, maybe. But I do know yin stands for inward, or female, and yang is outward, male. The two together are balance. And, in a way, they’re also androgynous. A balance of male and female, not all one or the other. And it hits me all of a sudden: This is me.

Mom pulls at my arm. “Forget that, Ethan.” This is one of the times she means it. But the seed has been planted. Before another day has gone by, I’ve started my tattoo fund.

Jorja gets on the bus for the first day of school decked out for real. Kyle’s on the bus, too, but we never sit together. Jorja and I had pretty much decided to go Goth together early last spring, getting black stuff cheap at Walmart. Goth came and went around here a few years ago, and now that it’s kind of out of fashion it’s that much more appealing; no one else will be copying us—been there, done that, bought the safety pins, using them on diapers—and we can let it be known that we like being outliers. She makes her way toward me, hugging her book bag to her chest, head down so that the look her eyes give you from under her eyebrows is kind of scary. As usual, there’s more black makeup than skin around her eyes, but the reddish-blond hair falling in strings around her face kind of dampens the effect. She plunks down beside me in the seat that everyone knows is saved for her, trying to pretend she doesn’t care whether I notice the black fishnet gloves that hook over her thumb and not the fingers. Makes me wish it were cold enough already to wear my own new gloves, and that new coat.

“Gloves in summer?” I ask, pretending it’s a genuine question.

She looks at them, shrugs. “I have a pair that pull all the way over my elbow for when it snows.” She half glances at me to be sure I’ve caught the irony, but then something outside the bus catches her eye. It’s the flimsy marquee outside her church. In slightly crumpled black capital letters it says, A PRAYER A DAY KEEPS THE DEVIL AWAY. From the corner of my eye I see her send two thumbs-up toward the sign. And I know she’s serious. She already prays in school, even when someone might be looking. Before last winter, when we hooked up as best friends, I thought she was doing it to be sarcastic. Now I know better. Even so, I still think she does it at least partly to be noticed. After all, it’s proof that she’s an outlier by choice.

If I’m an outlier—and I guess I have to admit that I am—it’s not because I want to be. It’s just safer. And hanging with Jorja is protection for both of us. I mean, she’s so heavy-duty Christian that she doesn’t want boys approaching her for sex, and when the other kids see us together so much, they won’t guess about me. So I go along with putting on this show—like the Goth thing—to pretend I’m an outlier by choice.

It was my idea, actually. Goth, that is. You can tell, just by looking at photos of Edgar Allan, that we’re related. Kyle, with his light brown hair and chipmunk cheeks, takes after Mom’s side of the family. But with my wide forehead, black hair and eyebrows, and a long nose, I look like the famous Poe except for the moustache and the dark eyes; my eyes, for some unknown reason, are blue. I even have a widow’s peak, and even though Edgar Allan didn’t, it seems appropriate somehow. He was Goth inside. Maybe I’ll get there someday, but for now I’ll do my best to look the part.

Jorja and I don’t sit together in every class; that would be lame. So we arrive separately to Biology today just before lunch and sit a few rows apart.

The teacher this year is new. Or, not new exactly. She grew up here, went to college in Orono, and came back to teach. Not that Orono is that far, but it’s just far enough that Sylvia Modine could insist on not living at home, I guess. I don’t really know her that well. I don’t really know her at all.

I know her brother, though. Not as well as I’d like. Imagine Kevin Bacon at sixteen, in one of his blonder phases, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what Max looks like: dark blond hair just mussed enough to make you wonder if he just got out of bed, a prominent chin, and a look in his blue eyes that’s either I might be pulling your leg or I’m imagining you naked. Max Modine has had my attention for about a year now. I can’t say whether I’ve had any of his, but I’d sure like it. There have been a few times when I thought that maybe, just maybe . . .

Of course, he may not know he’s got my attention. This is just so wrong. It’s not fair! It’s okay for people to think I’m with Jorja even when I’m not, but if Max and I were together—I mean, if he’s even gay—it’d be a freak show around here.

So now Ms. Modine is our Biology teacher. I suppose if I were straight, I’d think she was pretty. Long hair, light brown with blondish streaks, and one of those enthusiastic voices that makes me want to pull something over my head and hide. And she makes me want to hide right away.

“Good morning, class! I’m Ms. Modine, and before anyone has a wisecrack about it, yes—my brother Max is in the class. Anyone got anything to say about that?” She waits, her face smiling but her eyes challenging, and no one says a word. A few kids turn in Max’s direction for a second, and I realize I’ve blown a chance to look at him when it would be safe—when others were looking at him, too. Crap. Guess I’m working too hard to avoid being seen looking at him.

Ms. Modine has big plans for us, it seems. Dissecting frogs, field trip to a fish farm, twig identification after the leaves are off the trees, all kinds of fun. She assigns us some reading for tomorrow’s class. I don’t pay much attention until I hear a couple of girls make squealing noises; we’re to be prepared to discuss the circulatory system of a Japanese beetle.

“I’ll bet you never thought of a beetle having a circulatory system, did you?” is Ms. Modine’s snarky comment. That’s probably not how she meant it, but that’s how I heard it.

After school, on the bus ride home, Jorja tells me I’m coming to her church for Teen Meet with her. She likes to order me around. Sometimes I let her. I’m not sure why I don’t today, except that I’ve never agreed to go to this meeting before, and I don’t feel like it today, either. I’m pretty focused on the back of Max’s head two rows ahead of us.

Jorja sees this. Her voice hissing into my ear is almost painful. “You can’t do that! You know that! It’s your cross to bear.” She punches my arm hard as she gets up for the stop in front of her church, Society of Nazareth. I know what she means. She knows I’m gay. That’s why she feels comfortable with me. But she also believes it’s this huge sin to give in to the temptation to actually be gay, so she needs to believe that I would never act on it. She prays for me all the time, sometimes to be strong and resist temptation and other times to be straight, and every once in a while she checks in: “Are you still gay?” One time she’d had some kind of vision that told her the prayers had worked, and when I insisted I was still gay, she said, “You’re not just telling me that to get into my pants or anything, are you?” This made no sense to me, so all I could do was assure her that I was still gay. Still me.

Following Max’s ass with my eyes as he gets up for his stop, I’m thinking maybe, just maybe I’ll say something to Mom today. About me. But as we approach our stop, Kyle pokes my shoulder on his way forward in the bus. “Grass-cutting day,” he says, like I’d forgotten. I had, but I still don’t want him reminding me. And mowing the yard is not a small task. We have two full acres. Guess “true confessions” will have to wait.

Mom is standing on the front stoop, arms crossed on her chest, her head cocked at Mr. Phinney, who has his campaign persona in full swing. He’s running for the open seat on the school board for our district, which includes us and two other towns. No one was running against him until a few days ago. But now Etta Greenleaf has joined the race.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t pay much attention to this kind of thing. What do I care? School is school, whoever’s on the board. But Etta is famous. No one calls her by her last name. She’s lived here, like, forever, though she did move away for a little while. And mostly she’s kept to herself, in a small house that used to belong to her father, who’d been caretaker for the old Coffin estate, when the Coffin family owned this big tannery. It’s closed now, and the Coffin house burned down way before my time.

There’s a lot of rumors about why Etta came back and why she’s still here, but I think the most likely one is that her father didn’t leave when the Coffins moved out. He hung on, living off savings he’d never touched, until he couldn’t do things for himself anymore. That’s when Etta reappeared. To take care of him. He died years ago, but she’s still here. She must be at least sixty by now. Ancient. But she’s running for the school board. Go figure.

Her other claim to fame, which probably adds to the way everyone thinks of her as some kind of recluse, is her dog. It’s a pit bull, kind of a bronze color, named Two. Makes people wonder where One is, like Two is a distraction while One is getting ready to ambush you. But Two’s reputation is that he’s plenty ferocious enough; he doesn’t need a One around to help him with anything, thank you very much. Etta controls that dog. That vicious, man-eating dog. He might be a medium, if she were a witch.

Anyway, there’s Mr. Phinney, a vision of earnestness, eyes trained full on Mom’s face, a pile of those roadside VOTE FOR signs at his feet, with CARL PHINNEY SCHOOL BOARD in that shade of red that makes your teeth hurt, it’s so fake. Even from the end of the driveway I can practically see the tongue Mom’s poking into her cheek. She’s not big on politics, as long as they stay out of her way. Which is probably not a very sensible approach, especially in a town where positively everyone knows everyone else. It’s also a little weird, when you consider that she works at the town hall, unless you know why: she wants to keep an eye on them.

I don’t pay much attention to Mom or Mr. Phinney, knowing she’s not putting any VOTE FOR signs in our yard for anyone, and just make my way to the back door so I don’t have to be polite, so I don’t get trapped into a discussion. Upstairs, I throw my books on the tiny desk that barely fits in my room with the twin-size bed, which I throw myself onto as I grab my iPod nano. I’m pressing an earbud in when Kyle darkens my doorway and glares at me.

“Shit,” I say, barely above a whisper, and get up, knowing that Mr. Righteousness will be on my ass until I do the lawn.

He slaps the back of my head as I push past him. “Watch your language!”

Why do people say that? It’s stupid! Watch your language. You can’t do that unless you’re writing!

It takes me seven tries to get the old mower going, and by then I’m even more pissed off than I was when Kyle hit me. I shove the rattling contraption in what’s more or less a grid pattern over the front yard, beyond impatience, and it catches on every lump of dirt and irregularity, making me more and more furious. Finally, in the side yard, I step back from it and lean over, take a few long breaths, and