Page 7 of The Boy Next Door

Mom quizzes me about painters over frosted cereal at breakfast. It confuses me until she expresses an interest in the name of the Cruse's landscaper. According to her, if he's the Rembrandt of cluttered gardens, he must be a damn Michelangelo when it comes to cutting grass.

As a good son, I offer to go over and get the name before school.

Going to bed without obsessively checking if the bottle still bobbed there in the pond was torture. I tossed and turned all night.

I checked the pond first thing in the morning. The message in the bottle is going, going, gone. It's gone!

My message has been delivered, but I don’t have an answer yet, so I practically sprint over to the neighbor’s house.

I may receive the worst news of my life on their elegant black and white front porch. I may even burst into tears and embarrass myself further. At least I'll know . He'll give me an answer and the seconds at school won't tick by even slower than usual while I wait to learn my fate.

"Run away," I whisper when I hear the doorbell chiming distantly through the house.

A small victory? I manage to stay put.

Oh god, what if Dylan doesn't answer? What if his dad does?

Mr. Cruse is kinda intimidating. Honestly, I don't even know his first name on purpose so I won't slip up and address him wrong.

He seems like a man who can rival my mom in terms of withering glares and casually spoken disapproving words that cut to the core.

But even scarier because he might actually yell.

Or what if Hunter answers the door? Especially if he knows what I did and mocks me. What if he videotapes it? Yeah, nothing would be worse than that possibility.

The door swings open.

Dylan's tired eyes blink at me, his hair adorably disheveled. "Sam?"

Thank god. But what happens now?

"Uh, hi." I wave awkwardly.

"Hey. What's up?" He's wearing pajama bottoms, a loose T-shirt, and his feet are bare. He looks so soft—stop staring!

"Um, don't worry!" I say too loud, wincing when he startles at the volume. "I'm not here to pressure you if you don't have an answer or if you need time. I understand, it's... no matter what, I hope we can, we can still be friends." What if he hates me? "That is, if you want to."

Biting my lip to prevent any more words from spilling out, I do my best to avoid a heart attack while waiting for his response.

"Give me a second to wake up here," he says slowly, rubbing his eyes.

"Of course, right. I totally understand!" I'm acting like a freak. The worst part is knowing it and not being able to stop.

"Okay?" He yawns. "Yeah, I kinda overslept."

"Yeah, that…" None of this is going like I expected. "That's what I understand." I shake my fist, imitating a sleepy person. "Come on, brain. Wake up! " Shut up! Shut up now. I remember my official reason for visiting. "Oh, my mom wants the name of your landscaper."

"Sure, no problem." He doesn't move from the doorway, just stands there staring.

I stare back, trying to figure him out. I can't find anything I'm searching for, and it's hard to tell if he's scanning my face for similar clues or just waking up.

A tremendously awkward silence with the boy I have a monster crush on is going to send me into an early grave faster than even the most artery-clogging burrito. I must act.

"Um, if you do have an answer," I start, barely able to meet his eyes. "Not to rush you. Again, whenever." I try to relax, showing how casual I am.

He frowns, so it doesn't work.

"But if you do have an answer," I continue. "About, you know, you can tell me. Or even just tell me whether you have an answer or not, so I can prepare, um. Whatever you think is best."

Our eyes manage to meet and lock. I think he must be seeing right into my soul.

Or just seeing me for the first time, seeing all the things I try to hide around him.

This, while terrifying, also isn't so bad.

It's nice he sees the real me, that I don't have to keep pushing away the parts of me I'm too afraid he won't like.

Dylan doesn't seem disgusted as he watches me now. He's not looking away. That must be a good sign.

"Hold on," he says while stepping away. "We can do this now."

"We can?"

My body jolts like an electric shock zapped me. I'm glad he can't see as he moves away from the door, leaving it open. I stand paralyzed with indecision.

Does he want me to come in and sit down? Oh, that isn't good. Right before people deliver bad news they say 'why don't you sit down' first.

Then he's back. He doesn't want me to sit down. That's good, right?

"Here," he says, handing me a small white card.

Oh, he wrote down his answer? Well, I did write him a note first.

"If she only wants the grass cut," Dylan continues. "Your mom is gonna hate how much he charges to send one of his guys over."

It's the landscaper's card. I stare down at it, even turning it over just to check if he wrote anything on the back. Nope.

"Okay, I'll, um." I'm at a loss. "Is that all?"

"I think so?" He looks at me funny, though there are a million possible reasons why.

"Then I guess, should I, um." I half turn away, then look back, twisting back and forth, hoping inspiration or answers will strike. "Should I go?"

"Probably for the best." He begins shutting the door.

"Right," I murmur, unable to hide my disappointment.

He laughs. "I don't exactly wanna go to school in pajamas." Oh, right. "I'll see you later."

And then I'm on the porch by myself, staring at the dark polished wood of their front door.

Well... what just happened here? I'm not sure.

Does he wanna ignore my confession? The thought is devastating... surely if he's rejecting me, there would be some clue. Either a tension in his smile or even—the horror— anger for making a move when he's already dating somebody.

If he's trying to send me a message, it's too confusing. I have no idea what he means.

~

By lunchtime, I wonder if it’s too late to fake a sick day.

I'm facing away from Dyl in the cafeteria, but it's still too much. For something to do, I cut the food in front of me without seeing it. With so many questions swirling in my brain, I try voicing one.

"What do you think it meant when he—"

"We don't know," Clay answers before I finish.

My knife pauses as I cut. "You didn't let me finish."

"Well, you have asked about every single detail at least twice,” he reasons, head tilting in amusement.

"Because I don't understand," I groan. Keeping my confession and the conversation with Dylan from my friends wasn’t an option.

I needed their help. "There wasn't one clue.

Not a single one." I stare at my veggie cheese pizza.

Ugh, why did I cut it? Oh god. "What if not giving me a clue is the clue?

What if he wants to pretend it never happened? "

"It's a possibility," Maggie answers gently, prodding at the burnt edge of her lasagna and frowning. Her sore teeth protest eating the food due to recently tightened braces.

"Or what if, " I begin.

"Not that we don't appreciate the details," Clay says.

"We really do," Maggie assures me. "Not giving us more details would have been downright cruel, pure torture ."

"But we don't need to hear everything five times," Clay finishes.

Looking at them across from me, some guilt sinks into my confusion and mortification. "Sorry, was I monopolizing the conversation?"

"Just a tad." Clay goes easy on me.

Okay, don't think about Dyl for even a millisecond. Good plan. I look to them for suggestions.

"What should we talk about?"

"Actually," Maggie begins with a sheepish smile. "Nothing I have to say is remotely as exciting as your news, Sam."

We both look to Clay.

He drains the last of his Coke as he thinks. "Well, I never got a chance to discuss my viper."

"Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it does." Maggie glances down dubiously at his pants.

"Not a terrible nickname but no." He clarifies, "My Very Important Painting."

"This isn't the best topic either," I realize.

"Speak for yourself," he snaps.

"Why do you even care? You started on your project five minutes before the deadline."

"Which makes it even more impressive she loves it."

"I don't know about that."

"Guys, guys," Maggie jumps in, pushing a brown lock of hair from her face. "I still want to talk about something else if you're going to fight."

Clay and I eye each other warily. Maybe this is one teeny, tiny baby step above agonizing and torturing myself over every second of my conversation with Dylan and what any of it might mean. Just barely.

However, despite the effort Clay put in, Mrs. French clearly enjoyed his painting. He has a right to be happy. I know I would be in his shoes, and he only held back on talking about it because of me.

"Wanna spend the rest of lunch bragging while I tune out?" I offer.

He considers briefly. "How about I start with a humblebrag and you start tuning out during the first hardcore brag?"

I can handle that. "Deal."

Maybe taking care to tune out will even distract me from thoughts of my confusing neighbor.

~

As I walk by the teacher's lounge, Mrs. French calls out to me. It's kinda impressive she noticed me considering I walk in and keep going until arriving at a window in the back corner.

"Don't judge me," Mrs. French says, head halfway out the window as she blows smoke from her cigarette into the air. "All artists need at least one vice that both hurts and gives us pleasure at the same time. It adds depth."

"Okay..." This is one of those times when it's best to just nod and back away slowly.

"Do you know where Clay is?" she asks before I escape. "I need to speak to him about something."

"Is it extra credit?" I step closer, wrinkling my nose at the tobacco smell.

"No, Clay doesn't need extra credit."

Right. I waver, feeling vaguely guilty for being in here even though she invited me. There's a heavy blue and gold shawl on a nearby table, probably to prevent the smoke odor from seeping into it. I stare at it, telling myself I shouldn't ask.

"You want to know why I love his work and not yours?" She brings up the question for me, seeming confident despite almost hanging out the window.

Well... may as well find out the answer.

"He did rush his project at the last min—" I cover my mouth with a hand, then try to fix it. "I mean, uh…" Crap, just because I’m bitter doesn’t mean I want to rat him out.

"Relax." She waves her free hand. "I wouldn't expect anything else."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Clay is one of those annoying artists the rest of us hate," she says with a wry smile. "He doesn't plan carefully or analyze techniques and practice and practice until his arm goes numb. No, he just works, he pours everything onto the canvas without restraint."

Staring down at the beige tile in here, it sounds like everything I'm not.

"It takes a certain amount of bravery to go all in without regret." She blows a last puff of smoke out the window, turning to me with a sudden intensity. "Art isn't just about one moment of bold action but owning it afterwards."

Is she psychic? It sounds like she's aware of what happened. What the heck?

"How do you know something happened?" I gasp.

"The look on your face... and the way Maggie was texting in homeroom."

She grabs her shawl and waltzes away, so I'm alone in the teacher's lounge, looking out the open window.

When I receive a text message, it only adds to the puzzle of Dylan.

Dylan: Caught Hunter singing this morning.

He's recorded it and sent it to me with several emojis expressing 'LOL' and 'LMAO.' When I click play, his older brother's voice comes through. A tad distant, it becomes clearer as Dylan moves closer. After the shuffling of feet, there's only a voice on the recording.

He sounds... okay. Nice, I guess. I expect more at first, but he isn't a lead singer. Something about his swagger and cockiness makes him seem like a front man even if he plays the drums.

The melody sounds somewhat familiar, but I can't remember the title or artist.

“And one day, one day soon,” he sings, “ it's gonna be me and you.”

Not a terrible voice. Unmistakably male and deep, but there's a softness too. Maybe because it isn't what I expect him to sing. This doesn't seem like a punk song. Sounds more like a love song.

“Me and you, me and you, me and you.”

Definitely a love song.

Even though I risk being late for class, I listen to it again and again. Not because I like his voice or anything, no way. There's just something there. A mystery I can't figure out or put my finger on, but it bugs me. He sounds… there's something different. He—oh.

Hunter sounds happy.