“Because I love the big mower! It’s amazing!”
I hear the mower coming before I see it, the loud gasoline engine ripping through the silence of our backyard sanctuary. And then Adrian comes tearing around the side of the house, riding atop a machine that’s somewhere between a tractor and a go-kart. He’s standing in the back and leaning over the steering wheel, like he’s racing an ATV, leaving stripes of fresh-cut grass in his wake. Teddy climbs out of the pool and runs to the fence so he can see better. The landscaper is showing off, taking turns way too fast, driving in reverse, even pulling his hat down over his eyes so he’s driving blind. It’s not the best example to set for a little kid, but Teddy is riveted; he watches in openmouthed astonishment like it’s a performance of Cirque du Soleil. For his Grand Finale, Adrian speeds up in reverse, slams the gearshift into drive, and then hurtles toward us, popping a wheelie, keeping the mower aloft for three terrifying seconds so we can see its furiously spinning blades. And then with a loud crash the whole machine comes down, stopping inches shy of the pool fence.
Adrian hops off the side and offers the keys to Teddy. “You want to take her for a spin?”
“Really?” Teddy asks.
“No!” I tell them. “That is definitely not happening.”
“Maybe when you turn six,” Adrian says, winking at him. “Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?”
Teddy shrugs. “This is my babysitter.”
“Mallory Quinn.”
“It’s great to meet you, Mallory.”
He pulls off his work glove and sticks out his hand and there’s something oddly formal about the gesture—especially since I’m in a one-piece and he’s covered in mud stains and grass clippings. It’s my first hint there might be more to him than meets the eye. The inside of his palm feels hardened, like leather.
Suddenly Teddy remembers something and he starts fumbling to open the pool’s child-proof gate.
“Where are you going?”
“I made Adrian a picture,” he says. “It’s inside. Up in my bedroom.”
I lift the latch so he can get out, and Teddy sprints across the lawn. “Your feet are still wet!” I call after him. “Be careful on the stairs!”
“Okay!” he shouts back.
Adrian and I are forced to make awkward conversation until Teddy returns. It’s really hard to pinpoint his age. His body is all adult—tall, lean, tanned, muscular—but his face is still boyish and a little shy. He could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-five.
“I love this kid,” Adrian says. “He learned some Spanish in Barcelona so I’ve been teaching him new phrases. Do you watch him full-time?”
“Just for the summer. He starts school in September.”
“How about you? Where do you go?”
And I realize he’s mistaken me for a fellow student. He must think I’m a neighbor, that I live here in Spring Brook, where all the young women attend four-year colleges and universities. I start to correct him but I don’t know how to say “I don’t go anywhere” without sounding like a failure. I know I could share my whole awful backstory, but for the sake of small talk I just go along with his assumption. I pretend that my life hadn’t gone off the rails and everything had happened according to plan.
“Penn State. I’m on the women’s cross-country team.”
“No kidding! You’re a Big Ten athlete?”
“Technically, yes. But the football team gets all the glory. You’re never gonna see us on ESPN.”
I know it’s wrong to lie. A big part of recovery—probably the most important part—is owning your past and acknowledging all the mistakes you’ve made. But I have to say it feels pretty nice to embrace the fantasy, to pretend I’m still a normal teenager with normal teenage dreams.
Adrian snaps his fingers, like he’s suddenly made a connection. “Do you go running at night? Around the neighborhood?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve seen you training! You’re really fast!”
And I’m wondering why the landscapers might be working in the neighborhood after dark but there’s no time to ask because Teddy’s already running back across the yard, clutching a sheet of paper. “Here it is,” he says, winded and out of breath. “I saved it for you.”
“Oh, buddy, this is amazing!” Adrian says. “Check out those sunglasses! I look pretty good, right?” He shows me the picture and I have to laugh. He looks like the stick figure from Hangman.
“Very handsome,” I agree.
“Muy guapo,” Adrian says to Teddy. “That’s your new word for the week. It means super-good-looking.”
“Muy guapo?”
“Bueno! That’s perfect!”
Across the yard, an old man walks around the side of the Maxwells’ house. He’s short, with wrinkled brown skin and close-cropped gray hair. He shouts Adrian’s name and it’s clear he’s not happy. “?Qué demonos estás haciendo?”
Adrian waves to him, then shoots an amused look in our direction. “It’s El Jefe. I gotta go. But I’ll be back in two weeks, Teddy. Thank you for the picture. And good luck with your training, Mallory. I’m gonna watch for you on ESPN, all right?”
“Prisa!” the old man yells. “Ven aqui!”
“Okay, okay!” Adrian shouts back. He jumps onto the mower, starts it up, and crosses the yard in seconds. I can hear him apologizing in Spanish but the old man just yells over him, and they continue arguing as they disappear around the side of the house. I have a rudimentary grasp of Spanish from high school—I still remember el jefe means “the boss”—but they’re talking too fast for me to keep up.
Teddy seems concerned. “Is Adrian in trouble?”
“I hope not.” Then I look around the yard and marvel at the fact that—for all Adrian’s high-speed daredevil antics—the newly cut grass looks fantastic.
* * *
The Maxwells have a small outdoor shower on the back of their house so they can rinse off after swimming. It’s a tiny wooden stall about the size of an old-fashioned phone booth, and Caroline stocks it with absurdly expensive shampoos and body washes. Teddy goes first and I shout instructions through the door, reminding him to rinse his hair and shake out his bathing suit. When he’s finished, he shuffles outside with a beach towel wrapped around his body. “I’m a veggie burrito!”
“You’re adorable,” I tell him. “Go get dressed and I’ll meet you upstairs.”