The lot is where the action is. But until now, my dad said I was too short and scrawny to be of much help.*3 So instead he always hires one or two kids from the local high school.
But my growth spurt last summer also resulted in seven additional pounds, some of which is genuine muscle. Not to mention the two inches tacked on to my height. And if my dad’s been too stressed to notice, then I guess I’ll just have to show him.
* * *
*1 Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this, then maybe you’ll finally see what I’ve been telling you all along: Holly is not a nice person. This is just one example of what I’ve been forced to put up with for the last almost-thirteen years.
*2 In defense of his name, Holly and I were very young when we got him, and we thought it sounded distinguished.
*3 Okay, so maybe he didn’t say those actual words, but trust me, it was implied.
5:25 P.M.—7:45 P.M.
THREE TURTLEDOVES
“Hey, kiddo,” my dad calls the second I walk through the door.
I pause. Telling myself, not for the first time, that I really need to ask him to stop calling me that. I’m older now. The nickname no longer fits.
Problem is, right before he saw me, I saw him. And with his hair all gray and his face all creased, well, he looked so tired I can’t bring myself to do it. So I head into his office and deposit his dinner on his desk before joining him in the aisle where all the sealants and glues are displayed.
“How was school?” he asks, and I’m just about to answer when Sir Dasher Dashaway, the store’s unofficial mascot, runs over to greet me, farting the entire way.
“Aw, Dash.” I plug my nose with one hand and pet him with the other.
“He’s getting old.” My dad reaches for a can of holiday-themed air freshener, practically nuking the place with a cinnamon-and-clove-scented cloud.
“Is that what’s gonna happen to you?” I joke, just as two cars pull up to the front of the store, headlights blazing so brightly through the window that we’re temporarily blinded.
“Think they’re here for a new sprinkler system?” my dad asks. Though, unfortunately for him, his poker face is as bad as mine, and well before he can get the words out, he’s already grinning.
It’s a game we play. We try to guess what a customer will ask for by picking one of the store’s more obscure or off-season offerings, only to see if we’re right.
One time I guessed a stack of beach towels in the middle of a snowstorm, and dang if Plum’s mom didn’t come in on her way to her sister’s house in Florida, looking for precisely that.
The win earned me a crumpled ten-dollar bill plucked fresh from the register, which I put toward the latest Josh Frost CD. But this time, before I can guess, the engines cut, the lights dim, and the Turtledove family, including Mac, springs into view.
Mr. Turtledove climbs out of his customized truck, pushing through the door with a hearty “Hello!,” while Mrs. Turtledove and her lovely son, Mac, continue to sit in her big fat Mercedes, cell phones glued to their ears.
They’re probably fielding calls from Hollywood agents who heard about the latest Greentree sensation.
“Better make it quick,” my dad whispers, still waiting for my guess.
I just shrug. Seeing Mac Turtledove has wiped the fun out of me.
My dad shoots me a look of concern, but a moment later he’s crossing the room to shake hands with Mr. Turtledove, who, believe it or not, he knew back in high school.
That’s the thing about Greentree. Most of the people who live here were born here, and I guess they got too lazy to leave. It’s definitely not the kind of place anyone would ever choose to move to, other than Dougall and his dad, but I guess they had their reasons.
Mr. Turtledove shoots me a quick nod and wave, but honestly, I doubt he even knows my name. He’s the kind of guy who’s big with the hellos and the meaningless chatter, but he never really remembers your face unless he’s been looking at it for the last thirty-some years, like my dad’s. Also, he’s more of a seasonal shopper, coming in for pool umbrellas in the summer or fire logs in the winter. He’d hardly be considered a regular.
But tonight, according to him, he’s here for a tree.
Let the festivities begin.
“Gotta tell ya, Dashaway”—he hitches his thumbs into his belt loops like he’s some kind of rugged ranch hand instead of a real estate agent with his picture posted on notepads and bus stops all over this town—“I ventured over to The Depot, just to check out their stock, only to discover their trees aren’t nearly as impressive as yours. I gotta hand it to ya, Dashaway, you always seem to outdo yourself.”
Aside from being a photogenic real estate agent, Mr. Turtledove is also a former jock who calls everyone by their last name.
“So how about you take me to the biggest tree on your lot, and you and I can work out a price?” He shoots my dad this enormous grin, all white teeth and gold fillings.