The Music of What Happens(59)

“Now that’s poetry,” I say.

“What?”

“Language. I like when language is funny or surprising, I guess. ‘It made me understand you better and shit.’ I like it.”

“Just ’cause I added ‘and shit’ it’s a poem?”

“Not a poem. Just. Double meaning. Please don’t make me spell it out.”

Max stops painting and looks at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I roll my eyes and lower my voice. “Because ‘shit’ could be a noun or a verb. Sorry. I know that’s gross.”

Max cracks up and goes back to painting. “Wow. You think that’s gross. Glad you don’t hang out with my buddies.”

We let the Human League and Berlin be our soundtrack and we barely take breaks, even after the sun rises and starts to broil our exposed limbs. About two hours in my mom comes out, looking like she hasn’t showered in a few days. She salutes and takes a look at our work with her hands on her hips.

“Oh I love a project,” she says.

“You want to paint with us?” I ask, hoping she will. I want her to get to know Max. I want her to see how mature I’m getting, making big decisions like changing the name without even asking her anymore.

She looks at the car and then back at me. “I’d love to but I’m doing that thing where I live better,” she says. “Remember what I said a couple nights ago? I’m now a person who does things. Normal things. I’m going to the gym. Proud of me?” She strikes a pose.

I grin wide. “Go Mom,” I say. “I’m really proud of you.”

She puts her head to the side, turns her left leg in, and lifts up onto her heel as if she’s bashful. “Thanks,” she says. “That means a lot to me. Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and other clichés.”

I laugh. So does Max. She walks over to her car and curses when she touches the door handle, and then again when she gets in and touches the black leather steering wheel. She starts to drive off, then stops and rolls down the passenger-side window. “You look so handsome, Jordan,” she says. “You’re becoming such a handsome, strong young man. And by the way, can you pick up some plain Greek yogurt later? I’m gonna start doing protein shakes again.”

I nod and shade my eyes because she’s stopped at an angle where I’m looking right at the sun to look at her. She drives off.

Max says, “You have an … interesting relationship … with your mom.”

“I guess,” I say.

“She treats you like you’re the adult. Also that handsome stuff … creepy, dude.”

A shiver goes down my spine despite the heat. “Whatever,” I say. “I’m sure everyone’s relationship with their mom is weird to other people.”

Max shrugs. “If you say so,” he says.

We paint in silence, and I can feel pressure in my jaw from clenching. Why would he say that to me? Who is he to judge me and my mom? I rant in my head a bit, but I so don’t want to fight. So when Max says, “Truck’s coming along pretty good, don’t you think?” I nod and say, “Yup.”

Once both sides and the back are a shade of purple that makes me think of grape soda, Max takes out stencils and says we need to let the paint dry before he can do the lettering and the design. We go in and flop on the couch with two heaping glasses of ice water. Mom has left empty Go-Gurt containers on the table in front of the couch. Three of them. Cotton candy and melon berry flavored.

“Is your mom six?” Max asks, and I laugh but really my entire torso twinges at the comment.

“Yes. My mother is six. I’m negative twelve.”

“I’ve never in my life heard of an adult eating Go-Gurt. Or known that they make a cotton candy flavor.”

“Well, you learn something every day,” I say.

“Does that flavor come with an insulin pump?”

“Okay!” I yell, surprising myself. “Got it. My mom is an infant and I have a weird thing with her. Got it loud and clear. I’m a freak.”

Max moves closer to me on the couch. He’s drenched in sweat, as am I. He hugs me from the side. “You went wide there, dude,” he says. “I’m just messing with you.”

“I know, but.”

“I like messing with you.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Because I like you. But I don’t have to mess with you. If you want to be serious, you just say, ‘Be serious’ and I will. I like having deep conversations with you.”

I pull back and steal a glance into his eyes, and then avert mine from his. “You do?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry.”

He kisses me. My whole body goes numb in his arms. I want to stay this way forever. With Max kissing me and being serious with me, and it being a Friday afternoon and us alone at my house on the couch, with no boundaries, where anything can happen. I feel like I could get addicted to this. I whimper into his mouth, and I feel his lips curl into a smile.

“Better?” he asks.

I nestle my head in his wet shoulder. “Better,” I say.

“You know what I’d really like to do?” I shake my head no. He says, “Draw you.”

I laugh, because who the hell would want to draw this. He doesn’t, though, and this warm feeling races through my bloodstream. Max has that impact on me. A lot.