than grateful for that, so whatever her plan is, I am
in.
But instead of pulling out a jerry can, she straightens back up with a couple boxes of garbage bags in her arms. They must have been tucked just inside the front door. They’d have to be, any farther in and they’d be lost forever in the hoard.
Before she can ask, I reach out and gently take the boxes out of her arms.
“Thanks,” she says, and reaches up to run her hands through her hair, shoving it back from her face. Then she sighs again. I’m getting the feeling she’s been kind of emotional lately, that she’s been bottling everything up inside and it just keeps escaping bit by bit in sighs and nervous laughter. “Look,” she says. “I don’t even think we’ll get to the house today. I think we need to start in the backyard.”
The backyard? Ah fuck, is there
more?
“The backyard?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong. But she just kind of smiles at me, and the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Crap. There’s more.
***
The backyard is nearly as packed as the house is. It’s not stacked as high, but the entire lot is
covered.
And as far as I can tell, unlike inside the house, where every here and there I’d been able to pick something out visually that might actually be
worth
something, the backyard is just garbage. Garbage upon garbage upon garbage, as far as the eye can see. Somewhere, my neat freak of a mother is having a mental breakdown and she has no idea why.
Suddenly the Dumpster out front makes so much sense. But as I look at the mess in front of me, and think back to the Dumpster, all I can think is
it’s not going to fit.
“Now you see my problem,” Star says, and I turn to look at her. She’s perched on the edge of the porch—which is, itself, covered in enough junk that I’m actually seriously worried that it’s going to give out under the weight and take her down with it. She takes a step down, moving toward me. “I know it’s a lot of work, and I won’t blame you if you hightail it out of here, but I can really use the help. I need to sell this place by the end of the summer, or I’m screwed.”
She’s standing next to me just as I manage to swallow down my instinctive response of
I hear arson can be fun,
because as much as I can use the money she’s offering, this is . . . It’s too much. But as I turn to look at her, all I can see is the way her face is already falling, like she can tell what I want to say.
I’m an asshole.
I let out a breath and look around, trying to convince myself it’s not as bad as it looks. After a moment, I almost believe it. And I don’t know if it’s the look on her face or the fact that I need the money to
live,
but I find myself holding out my pinkie—first just like I did earlier.
“Like I told you earlier, I’m in,” I say, and link my finger with hers.
Her smile? Is fucking blinding.
So I do the only thing I can. I shrug off my coat and get to work.
Star
I have to hand it to Ash; he is a hard worker. Like, he’s a really hard worker. Actually, that doesn’t even come close to covering it. The guy worked his ass off. And, mercifully, he didn’t complain
once.
I had seen the look on his face when he first saw the inside of the house. He’d been floored. And as we’d gone through the garbage in the backyard, I could tell just how disgusted he was. But he’d kept quiet about it. He just . . . worked. Picked up a box of garbage bags, asked me if there was anything he should keep an eye out for, and when I shook my head, he just pulled out a bag and shook it out. Then he started filling it up.
After a few minutes, though, we realized that the garbage bag plan wasn’t the best one. The entire yard was littered with so much stuff, that it just wasn’t feasible to bag it all. So instead, after the first half-dozen bags, we switched methods and started hauling the big stuff into the Dumpster. Waterlogged boxes, huge piles of lawn furniture that had been left out so
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley