Flipped // DNF

Chapter Eight

CONTENT WARNING: This chapter includes arguing/fighting/yelling within the family.

I'd never been embarrassed by where we lived before. I, also, never really thought about money. I knew we weren't rich, but I didn't feel like we were missing anything. That is, until Clay called our home a complete mess. I had to do something, and I knew what it was.

George and his family were sitting at the table for dinner. His two older brothers were singing for the rest of the family.

"That's amazing," their mother clapped.

"We'll record it in Karl's garage," one of the brother's said.

"That's a wonderful project."

"Speaking of projects," George blurted, "I was thinking it might be cool to fix up the yard."

"What?" His father was surprised.

"I mean, how much can grass seed cost?" George asked. "I could plant a lawn, maybe some flowers. I could even put up a fence."

"Honey, that's a major undertaking."

"I could pay for it with my egg money," George suggests.

"No. That's your money. The landlord should be the one taking care of all this," his father said.

"But they don't. And we live here. And it looks so bad," George said disappointedly.

"Georgie, what's going on?" His father was concerned.

"Nothing, Dad."

"It's okay, sweetheart. You can tell us."

Somehow, my mom always knew when something was wrong. Even if I wasn't even showing any signs that something could be wrong. It always amazed me.

"Clay's family has been throwing out my eggs because they're afraid of salmonella because our yard is such a mess."

"Did his mom say that?"

"No. Clay did."

"It must've been a family discussion. A boy doesn't come up with that on his own." His mother was extremely upset.

"Who cares what they think?" One of his brothers says, trying to make their mother feel better.

"I care."

"Honey, let's not get into this," his father said.

"No, I'm tired of living like this. I'm tired of having to take temp jobs just to make ends meet. I'm tired of having to push up a chair against the washing machine, just to keep the door shut. I'm tired of having to borrow the neighbors vacuum cleaner every time ours breaks down." His mother was interrupted.

"Do you think this is the life I pictured for us? Sometimes, you have to sacrifice to do the right thing. We always end up agreeing that private care is the right thing for my brother," his father yelled.

"Well maybe, we should start thinking about what's right for us," his mother yelled back.

I hate seeing my parents fight. It makes me feel like everything is my fault.

"Our son is suffering because we won't even fix up our own yard," his mother continued.

I guess it is my fault.

"It is not our yard," his father was getting louder with every response.

"How could you say that? How? We've lived here for twelve years and for twelve years we've been saying it's temporary, but it's not. This is our home. Is it wrong to want to live somewhere you can be proud of? To have enough to send your kids to college?"

George started to tear up. "Mom," he said softly.

"Maybe it's time we considered government care," his mother yelled.

"We are not moving my brother."

George had never seen his parents so angry.

"He's more important than your own children?"

His father slammed his fist onto the table.

"DAD!" George screamed.

"How dare you!" his father screamed, picking up his fist and dropping it back onto the table.

"Stop it, dad! Please, just stop." George couldn't hold back his tears anymore.

"I'm sorry. George, this is not your fault. We'll work this out, I promise."

That night, they each came into my room. My father talked about his brother and how much he loved him and how he promised his parents he would always take care of him.

My mother talked about how much she loved my father for his strength and kind heart. When she kissed me good night, she whispered that of all her many blessings, I was her best.

I felt sorry for my father.

I felt sorry for my mother.

But most of all, I felt lucky for me that they were mine.

I wanted to think the reason that I started working on my yard had nothing to do with Clay. After what he did with the eggs, why should I care what he thought?

But I did.

George was struggling to cut the bushes that were against the side of his house. He heard a voice, which startled him.

"Are you pruning that or trying to hack it to death?" The man laughed. "Hi. I'm Clay's grandfather. Sorry it's taken me so long to come over and introduce myself."

"Nice to meet you," George smiled.

"So, are you trimming all these to the same height?" Clay's grandfather said, putting on gloves and walking to the bushes.

"Well, yeah, that's what I was thinking, but I don't know. Do you think it would look better just to take them out?" George asked.

"Oh, these are Hicksii shrubs. These will prune up nicely," he said, starting to cut away at the bushes.

"Hey, um, if you're here because of what Clay said, then I don't need your help," George said nervously.

"I read about you in the paper. My wife would've sat up in that tree with you," he laughed. "She would've sat up there with you all night."

"Your wife?" George asked.

"You remind me a lot of her."

George was flattered.

We worked on the yard for weeks. And the whole time we worked, we talked. He wanted to know more about the sycamore tree.

He knew exactly what it meant, about the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. He said it's the same with people, but sometimes with people, the whole could be less.

I thought that was pretty interesting.

I started looking at people who I've known since elementary school, trying to figure out if they were more or less than the sum of their parts.

He was right. A lot of them were less.

Out of all my classmates, the one person I couldn't seem to place was Clay. Until recently, I would've said, with absolute certainty, that he was greater, far greater, than the sum of his parts. But now I wasn't so sure.

George was watering the grass in his front yard when he heard Clay's voice from behind him.

"It's looking good, George. Nice job."

"Thanks. Your grandpa did most of it."

"I'm sorry for what I did."

"I don't get it, Clay. Why didn't you just tell me?"

Was he really sorry or was he just saying these things to make himself feel better?

Then, I thought, maybe, I just wanted him to be greater than the sum of his parts. But as I looked into his eyes, those dazzling eyes, for the first time, I was pretty sure that Clay was less.