Page 32 of These Secret Years

“I can work around it. You don’t have to stop.”

“It’s fine.” He’s already standing up and collapsing the pin at the base of his cello.

“I wasn’t trying to interrupt. I was just listening.”

“Yeah? What’d you think?”

“Did that song have a name?”

“I was just messing around.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Sullivan “messing around” on the cello sounded a hell of a lot like the kind of performance you’re supposed to wear a suit to. I help him clear the room out by grabbing the couch cushions and the chair, leaving him to gather his own things.

He mentions going home again, and again, I talk him out of it. Convincing him to stay is a little easier this time. The golden hour happening outside the windows portends sunset, and I make it a point to gesture at the large cello case and remind him I’ve got my car and another set of hands.

He claims he made it through the woods in one trip, but when I tell him I’ve got hot dogs, he shrugs and says, “Fine.”

Without knowing what kind of shape this house would be in, I brought a few more supplies than I normally would for one of my house sitting nights. I have a bin in the trunk of my SUV with some camping supplies, including a propane stove, but the electric stove in the house, while shitty, works.

Once I’m done mopping, and while Sullivan is at the dining table, drawing music notes on the papers he brought with him, which are all preprinted with musical staffs, I bring in my cooler and my bin. His violin is beside him on the table. Occasionally, he glances at it and plucks a string before returning his attention to the pages.

I don’t ask him about it even though my questions are piling up. But while I’m waiting for a pot of water to boil, I do watch him. Watch might be the wrong word. Stare. I stare at him like a creep.

When the hot dogs are ready, I put two on a plate for him and four for myself. I open a bag of potato chips, put it on the table, and set out ketchup and mustard bottles.

The only drinks I brought are beer and water.

Sullivan wants a beer, so I bring those and the hot dogs to the table, sitting across from him. He eyes my plate and then meets my eyes with a question.

“I’m a growing boy,” I say. My dick? Also growing again, and I adjust it beneath the table. He takes one of his hot dogs out of the bun and puts a small handful of chips on his plate. Then he takes a sip of his beer.

“So, what are your plans for the summer?” I ask.

“Well, I flunked algebra, so I’m mainly avoiding thinking about that.”

“Damn. Can you retake it in a summer session?”

“That’s the plan, but I don’t really see how I can figure out in six weeks what I wasn’t able to figure out in four months.”

“Any specific part of it you struggled with?”

He takes a small bite of his hot dog bun and shakes his head. “Most of it went over my head. I’m not a math person.”

I swallow half a hot dog in a big bite and inform him, “I’m kind of a math person.”

“Good for you.”

So, he still makes me nervous. Mostly he’s polite, but he’s also dismissive enough that I’m constantly waiting for him to tell me to fuck off. I don’t have a lot to lose out here in the woods, though, so I say, “I mean I could help if you want.”

He tears off another piece of bun and puts it in his mouth. “Why would you do that?”

Why does he keep asking me why?

“Because I don’t have many plans for the summer, I’m good at algebra, and I’m offering.”

“What would that look like? Like you want to tutor me, or you’ll take my tests for me?”

My answer hints at my desperation that he’ll take me up on this offer. “Whatever you want.”