The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(10)

Instead, he’s busy moving farther toward the edge of the sidewalk to avoid me, putting as much distance between us as humanly possible on our walk to the park near the Big Brothers building. The kid—Kyle—balances on the curbs, walks on the grass, beneath trees, dodging and weaving his way in and out of yards along the way.

His scuffed up black sneakers offer zero tread when he takes another curb, barreling ahead by at least thirty paces like the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels—maybe they are, in the shape of…

Me.

Closing in on Greenfield Community Park, the place Violet mentioned yesterday, I try to rein him in.

“Don’t go running all over place. You should probably get back here.”

He ignores me.

“I’m fucking talking to you, kid.”

“I fucking heard you,” he smarts back, his prepubescent voice cracking with false bravado that doesn’t quite reach his posture. He adjusts the brim of his hat so he can ogle me better.

According to his file, Kyle Fowler is a fourth-grade latchkey kid who spends most of his time at the community center while his mom works. According to his file, he’s quiet, respectful, and shows an aptitude for sports, his favorite being soccer.

Soccer? Gimme a break.

But according to my observations, Kyle Fowler is a wiseass punk with a chip on his shoulder bigger than mine and a foul mouth to go along with it.

I narrow my eyes. “Hey, watch your mouth.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You watch your mouth. I’m eleven.”

I stop walking to cross my arms over my chest. “Look, if we’re going to be stuck together for the next few months, the least we can do is try to get along.”

To my own ears, I sound as disgruntled about it as he does.

His reply is one of loathing, followed by a grunt when he climbs onto the wooden picnic table and turns his back. “I don’t need to get along with you, jerk. I got myself.” He stabs a forefinger into his boney chest.

“Listen you little shit—”

He cuts me off. “I’m going to tell my mom you spent the entire time cussing at me, and then they’re going to kick you out of the program.” He flips me the bird.

“I swear to God, kid, if you don’t knock it off I’m going to—”

“You’re going to what? Tattle?”

My nostrils flare. What the hell is this kid’s problem? “Why are you in this program if you hate it so much? How fucked up is it at your house?”

“I never said I hated it and it’s none of your damn business.” Kyle pauses before directing another glare my way. His small jaded eyes cast judgment at me over his shoulder. “I know why you’re doing this. Someone is making you.”

“Whatever.” I check my phone for the time. “We have to kill an hour and forty-five minutes before I can take you back, so what do you want to do?”

He turns toward me, rolling his eyes from behind the lenses of his glasses. “Not sit in this lame park. Why did you bring me here? There ain’t shit to do. Parks are for babies.”

“I’m not taking some sloppy kid for a ride in my truck, so deal with it.”

“I’m not dirty.”

“Yeah right. I don’t know where those hands have been.”

Am I mistaking it, or did his shoulders slump? “My last big brother at least fed me when I was hungry.”

“Do I look like I care if you’re hungry?”

“No. You look like a giant butthole.”

“That’s because I am a giant butthole.” Jesus Christ, did I just call myself a butthole? How low toward this kid’s level am I going to sink?

I run a palm down my face and mentally count to five to regain patience.

As I’m doing that, Kyle pushes off the table and stalks toward the swings, dragging his tennis shoes through the rough wood chips. Instead of sitting in a swing, he grabs one by the seat and shoves it hard, sending it sailing through the air. The chains clang and hit the metal pole, creating an irritating echo in the otherwise quiet park.

“Knock that shit off,” I call from my perch on the picnic table, irritated. “You’re disrupting the peace.”

Yeah—my peace.

He ignores me and his pale, scrawny arms give the seat another hard shove.

“Hey!” My voice booms. “I said knock that shit off.”

I don’t know why I even care—he’s leaving me alone and wasting time like I told him to—but for some reason, the sound of the tinging metal is grating on my last nerve. Making me aggravated.

“Are you going to actually sit and swing on that thing, or just continue to annoy the hell out of me the whole time?” I bellow, deep voice filled with impatience.

Kyle shoots another scowl over his lanky shoulder, a storm cloud of resentment passing over his dark blue eyes before the bright rays of sun make his expression unreadable.

My jaw clenches out a labored sigh. This is harder than I thought it would be.

“Do you want me to come give you a push?” God, what am I saying? I don’t think I’ve ever pushed anyone on a swing in my entire life. Plus, he’s eleven; shouldn’t he know how to pump it himself?

“Screw. You.” He releases the seat of the green swing, resuming his stomp through the wood chips toward the play set, kicking the toe of his tennis shoes into the splintered bed of chips along the way.