The Amazing Wolf Boy

Part 23 - A Casual Dinner

We studied for a couple of hours. Brittany was smart. I doubted she needed coaching in history. To change things up, I asked for a hand with my math. So there we were, two people acting like we needed help when neither of us did. It was slower but more enjoyable working together.

The sky darkened. It was a relief to feel I didn’t have to shift tonight, that the moon had no hold on me. I watched Brittany’s face as she bent over my Trig worksheet, wanting to spend as much time with her as I could.

“Do you have to get back?” she asked as if just noticing I was staring at her.

“No, I can stay.”

“Good. Let’s get dinner before Butt Crack comes down and eats everything.” Her eyes sparkled as she said it, so I didn’t think she was really speaking ill of her brother.

She opened the pot, and steam puffed up. She nuked a couple of sticks of butter until they were soft. Then she pulled out a breadboard and sliced off the tops of four round loaves of bread. She used a spoon to hollow them. It was like watching someone carve a jack-o-lantern. The loose chunks of bread went into the chili, instantly thickening the broth.

“The secret to a good bread bowl is buttering the inside,” she said as she painted a loaf with the soft butter and a brush. “Otherwise, it gets soggy.”

Her brother appeared as if he’d teleported. He gave me a nod of acknowledgment, and then leaned over his sister’s shoulder as if to make her hurry.

“Stop, Butt Crack,” she said. “Geez. Have one.”

He snatched the bread, smiling in triumph, and ladled vegetables inside. “Any cheese?”

“No.” She handed me a bowl. “Here, Cody. Just push him out of the way.”

I was struck by how casual dinner was. Not the white linen affairs of my home. In spite of that, I was not about to push anyone out of my way.

“Is Grandpa awake?” Brittany asked.

“Asleep.” Butt Crack ladled until cooked tomatoes dripped down the sides of his bowl. “I saw a black bear today.”

“An actual bear?” I blurted. I didn’t know Florida had bears. Alligators, panthers, pythons. What kind of place was this?

Brittany dropped her paintbrush in the sink. “Don’t tell me you were hanging out in the Glades again.”

“Nope. It was closer to town.”

“Well, it better stay away. Somebody will shoot it. Poor thing.”

“Yeah.” Butt Crack looked thoughtful. He carried his bowl back upstairs.

I took his place at the pot, and then moved aside for Brittany. She handed me a plate to hold my vegetable-laden bread and led me to the front porch. We sat together on the wicker furniture, eating and counting fireflies. The chili was good, spicy and full of peppers and squash. A few months ago, I would have said it was ideal, but lately I craved a little more meat with my meals.

After we ate, we played gin rummy. I told her about the ostrich and how I thought it was a body, which she thought was hilarious. She kept trying to steer the conversation to my home in Massachusetts, but I didn’t want to talk about it. My life there seemed opulent compared to what I had now, and I didn’t think I could describe it without sounding like I missed it. I mean, I did. But if somebody came up to me and offered to turn back time, I wouldn’t let them. This day was perfect, and I wouldn’t leave Brittany for anything.

Around eight o’clock, after she’d beat me two hands out of three, she drove me home. I wanted so bad to kiss her goodnight, but I was afraid to spoil things. I knew she liked me as a study partner; that was as far as it went. So I thanked her and got out of the car.

The house was dark. Uncle Bob wasn’t home. I booted my laptop and searched how to fix a leaky faucet. It looked straightforward. With a flashlight in hand, I went to the tool shed. I unlocked it with the hidden key.

My mouth dropped open. There must have been a million tools in that shed. There were five kinds of wrenches, one of them two feet long, and twelve different screwdrivers. There were even a couple of machetes. All the drawers were labeled—three-eighths this and five-eighths that. How was I going to choose what I needed?

“Can I help you find something?” Uncle Bob said.

I jumped at his voice, then wailed, “Grandpa Earle has a drippy faucet.”

“Earle Meyer? How do you know him?” His face eased. “Ah, the cute girl.”

My shoulders drooped along with the flashlight beam. I didn’t want him to know that I had a thing for Brittany. After all, she didn’t have a thing for me.

“Newer faucets don’t use washers,” he said, “but I happen to know the Meyers have an old one like us. I’m not sure what size you’ll need. I’ll give you a couple of the most common. Then it’s just a matter of taking off the handles. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Wishing I could have figured it out myself, I followed him into the kitchen.

“First thing,” he said, “turn off the water. Then close the drain and lay paper towel in the sink. Next, you take the screws out of the handles. This screwdriver is a six-in-one. You change the bits like this. When you take out the screws, lay them on the paper towel so you can see them.”

I leaned close, watching him work. He removed the handles, and then used an adjustable wrench to take out the insides.

“You know, people relationships are tough,” he said. “I don’t want to see either of you hurt.”

I wanted to say no problem, but it wasn’t that easy. I knew in my gut that I would love Brittany until I died. But if she ever found out about my little problem, I was likely to be the one who got hurt.

“I realize things are tough for you right now,” Uncle Bob said. “Your body’s changing, and you have urges you never felt before.”

I groaned. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? I had that conversation with my dad two years ago.

He looked at me and smiled. “I’m here, that’s all. If you ever want to talk.”

“Thanks.” I took the tools and retired to my room.

Tuesday after school, I fixed Brittany’s bathroom faucet. She beamed at me as if I’d performed brain surgery. Grandpa Earle was already down for his nap, so we couldn’t tell him. That was all right. I didn’t do it for him, anyway.