Boys Like You

Blah. Blah. Blah.

None of it changed the fact that I’d screwed up huge, and I wasn’t sure what made me more bitter—the fact that I should be riding a bench in juvie and wasn’t, or the fact that I should be the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed with broken bones that would never play a guitar and a brain that might be scrambled for life.

My cell buzzed and I grabbed it from my pocket, frowning when I saw my uncle’s name pop up.

Shit. I knew what this meant.

I started walking.

“Nathan, I’m going to be late.”

The Oak Run Plantation was about thirty minutes down the road, and though the air was thick with humidity, anything was better than sitting on my front porch, staring at a car I couldn’t drive and thinking about stuff that made me more depressed than I already was.

“I’ll head over,” I answered.

“It’s hot as hell out there, boy. I don’t want you to have heatstroke. Your mother will tan my hide if that happens.”

My parents had gone north for the week in a bid to escape the heat, so at the moment, I was stuck home with no wheels and no one to take me anywhere. I could die of heatstroke and they wouldn’t know until Sunday night when they returned, because they never called when they were away—and I knew not to call them unless the house was on fire.

I could say it was because cell reception was bad, but the simple truth was, my parents really dug each other—still—and they kinda forgot about the world when they went away.

I used to think it was gross—the way my dad would paw my mom—but now I realize they have something special, and that’s a hell of a lot more than I could say for a lot of my friends’ folks.

“I’m good.” I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag and emptied it over my head. It soaked through my hair, which hung down to just above my shoulders, and splattered drops of water across my white T-shirt. My dad hated my hair, but Mom and my girlfriend, Rachel, loved it.

Rachel had told me once that if I ever cut it off, she’d dump me—she was joking, of course, but for a while there I wasn’t so sure.

It was hair; I didn’t see what the big deal was, but Rachel thought it made me look like some guy on TV, and Rachel was, if anything, all about looks. I guess when you are a hot little blonde, it’s not surprising.

“Thanks, Nate. You’re a good kid.”

Tell that to Trevor, I thought.

“The paint and brushes are already there, so you just need to get started and knock off around five, or earlier if need be. It’s Friday, you got plans?”

Rachel had left for the lake about an hour ago with a group of friends we hung out with, including one of the guys in my band, Link.

I could still taste her cherry gloss in my mouth. She’d come by, wearing the skimpiest bikini top you can imagine, along with the shortest jean shorts she owned. If I cared enough, I would hav

e given her crap about it, but since I didn’t anymore, I said nothing.

She’d jumped from the car and into my arms, wrapped her legs around my waist, begging me to reconsider and come with them. She seemed almost desperate—as if she knew something that I didn’t.

What does it matter if you blow off Mrs. Blackwell?

Your job will still be waiting for you on Monday.

It’s not like your uncle will fire you.

“Nate,” she’d breathed against my mouth. “Come on, baby, it will be a good time.”

A good time for Rachel was code for getting wasted and having sex, which were two things I wasn’t all that interested in anymore. At least not with her. Not since that night.

“Nathan?” My uncle’s voice cracked through the cell.

“Nah, I’m taking it easy tonight. I’ll work ’til five,” I answered and then pocketed my cell. Or later. There was nothing for me to come home to, and without the band or Rachel around, what was there for me to do?

The walk to Oak Run Plantation was brutal. It was hot and muggy, and by the time I got there, my T-shirt was long gone. My feet were just as sweaty as the rest of me, and I was irritated that I’d decided to wear work boots instead of something more sensible like my Chucks or sandals.