Personal Effects by E. M. Kokie Page B

the job site on Thursday morning feels weird. The neighborhood is too quiet, with everyone off at work or school except for the old people, the moms, and the little kids. I keep looking over my shoulder, like a cop car or something’s gonna come along and ask why I’m not in school. But by the time I get to the house, being out alone feels kind of cool, freeing, and my muscles are loosening up, less stiff with every step. I don’t even have to look for the ANDERS & SONS sign, because Mr. Anders is out front, leaning against his black truck sporting the blue Anders & Sons logo on the side. Between all the years T.J. worked for him, and now me, we have a gazillion of his shirts, that logo across the back, splattered with a variety of different color paints.
    A second too late to be smooth, I wipe my hand on my jeans and reach out to shake his hand. But when he sees my scabby, messed-up knuckles, his hand stops midair. Instead of shaking, we both pull our hands back and nod hello.
    I don’t know what to do or say, so I wait for him to start.
    Somehow it feels like an interview, or a test: maybe he isn’t sure he really wants me working for him anymore.
    “Well, you don’t look too bad,” he finally says. But then he looks at my right hand again and looks away. For the first time I feel a little weird about the fight — maybe not the whole fight, but how bad it got. I pull my hand behind my leg so he can’t see my knuckles. “Are you really up for working?”
    “Yeah. Not everything, but I can sand, scrape, paint. Maybe not ceilings, because of the ladder, but . . .” I try to stand real straight, like my knee and shoulder aren’t throbbing. “Yeah. And, uh, I really need the money.”
    “So you said.” His mouth flattens out into a lipless line. “How much trouble are you in? I mean, other than suspended. Did you have to talk to the police, or . . .”
    “No, no, just the suspension — and paying for the display case that got smashed.”
    “Your dad OK’d you working so soon? Still seem pretty banged up,” he says, motioning toward my hand, and then my face.
    “He’s fine with it. More than fine.” I laugh a little. A mistake, because Mr. Anders’s eyes narrow. Shit. Dad is cool with Mr. Anders, and not just because Mr. Anders is retired Navy or because he hires a lot of guys from military families. But I’m never sure how cool Mr. Anders is with Dad. “I really need the money,” I say again, staring at his boots.
    “OK,” he says, even though it sounds like anything but “OK.” “I just wanted to check on you before you started. So, if you’re sure you’re well enough to work . . .”
    “I’m fine.” He fiddles with the edge of the binder, watching me. “Really.” I hold my arms out, showing him I’m fine. Too bad I have to drop my shoulder fast.
    He steps closer. “Look, Matt, my dad wasn’t easy to please. I get it. And I had my fair share of fights. But . . . take it from an old fighter, OK? Just play it cool for a while. Sometimes you’ve just got to tell people what they want to hear.”
    Easy for him to say.
    He reaches over and pats my back. I shift away, and my backpack slides down my arm.
    “And working for me this summer will be good. You’ll be around some other guys who understand. Just, until then, keep your head down, and take care of yourself, OK?”
    I nod, mainly because I know he means well, even if he has no idea how ridiculous it is to say the right things to Dad or to deal with the shitheads at school who don’t know jack.
    Mr. Anders hands me a package of blue painter’s tape to take in to Jerry, who’s overseeing the crew, then waves me toward the house.
    “Thanks, Mr. Anders.”
    He holds out his hand to shake, and I shuffle the tape and my backpack, trying to get my hand free, but it gets caught in between. He just chuckles and pats me on the back again, a little harder this time.
    The first time I met Mr. Anders was in a house like this one. I was