carefully everywhere descending by L.B. Bedford Page B

okay,” I say. “I’ll mow this time, and you can do it next time, okay?”
    â€œSure,” he says dully.
    â€œDon’t look so down,” I say. “You can’t stop grass from growing; that’s why they need someone to mow. There will be another shot. Soon you’ll be begging me to take over for you.”
    I leave him with some liquids and go to change into a sports bra and a ratty old T-shirt and shorts. I tie on my oldest shoes, small, so they pinch a little, and pull my shoulder-blade-length hair back into a ponytail.
    I walk to the Pirinens’, passing over the poor line and retracing my steps to Vapiano’s. Instead of turning left at the beautiful, castle-like yellow-and-blue house, I go right. I pass four more colossal houses until I come to the Pirinens’. I knock on their door before spotting the doorbell. It’s shaped like a fairy. This strikes me as odd. I ring it and step back a little on the porch to wait.
    Mrs. Pirinen answers the door. From what I can tell by previous encounters, she’s a spacey lady, hair like a cloud around her head. Today she’s wearing a shirt with an airbrushed unicorn on it. That must be the influence on the doorbell.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Pirinen,” I say. “I’m Audrey Anderson. My brother Sam was supposed to mow your lawn today, but he’s sick. I’m here to mow for you instead.”
    â€œOh! Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, and I assume she means about Sam. “Oh, let me see…. I guess you need the mower, don’t you?” She flutters away, and after a moment the garage door to my right churns to life and slowly lifts. Mrs. Pirinen’s legs, then torso, come into view as it rises, so I gently shut the front door before walking over to her.
    â€œIt’s that one, there,” she says, pointing at a small push mower. I can see why Dad wasn’t too worried about Sam: it looks very basic.
    â€œI don’t know how to use it, though,” she continues, distressed. “And Mike’s gone out to the grocery….”
    â€œIt’s all right,” I say, going over and inspecting it. “I can figure it out.”
    â€œOh, you can? You angel,” she sighs. “I’ll just be”—she points to the open door leading to the interior of the house, where a light gold carpet and shimmery blue walls are visible—“if you need me.”
    I thank her and wheel the mower out to the yard.
    It doesn’t take me very long to get the hang of it. It roars to life immediately when I push a button, and I spare a moment to be relieved it doesn’t have a pull-start engine before beginning to cut the grass in straight, neat lines. The constant rumble of the engine acts as a mantra, and I lose myself in random, wandering thoughts as I push. Soon the sun is higher in the sky, and I’m sticky with sweat under my arms, across the top of my shirt, and down my bare legs.
    The lawn is cut in half by the driveway, and I’ve worked my way down the right side nearly all the way to the street when some sixth sense niggles before I’m even fully conscious about what distracts me. A silver car goes slowly past, then turns at the end of the block and comes back. The window rolls down and Scarlett West grins at me across the empty passenger seat. She slows to a halt near me and says something, which I can’t hear over the roar of both engines. I kill the mower and say, overloud, “What?”
    She turns her key and repeats, “Nice job! Can you do my lawn next?”
    In furious humiliation, I stab at the button several times before I finally start the mower. I march away with my back rigid, determinedly not looking at her. So I jump when she unexpectedly appears next to me, face serious and apologetic. She wordlessly holds up her hands and then reaches over and stops the mower.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says immediately.