“It’s going. I mean, I’m caught up on everything but the paper is coming slow. When I sit down to really get it done, sometimes I get a headache and I just… hit this wall,” he explains, gripping at the back of his head.
“That’s probably more related to that concussion you got.” I shrug. “But history has been known to cause headaches, too.”
I read through his outline while he eats, and check the rest of his work in other classes, too. Not only is he caught up, but in English and Math, he’s actually finished. I slip the work back into the envelope to protect it from the war zone that is this house.
“You finished your English and Math. You didn’t say that.”
He shrugs humbly. “That stuff didn’t give me a headache.”
I grip my chest like he’s mortally wounded me. “Ouch.”
Rawley’s phone rings, and he answers it quickly. “Hi.” He takes a bite, and says, “We’re eating.” Another pause, and because of the TV, I can’t hear the other end of his call in the slightest. “I will.” He looks at Tanner and rolls his eyes. “I will.” Tanner cups his hands to his mouth, yelling “hi mom!” and Rawley tugs the receiver away from his mouth, telling his brother, “she says hi.” A moment later, the call is over.
“What did she want?” Tanner asks.
“Make sure I fed the underlings.” He looks at me. “Thanks again. It was gonna be shitty freezer pizza otherwise.”
“Does she know about the washing machine yet?” Tanner asks, reaching into Rawley’s food to steal additional fries. Rawley seems unbothered, and again, these boys surprise me.
Most brothers fight and punch and argue over fistfuls of fries. But there’s camaraderie here.
Archie spins, eyes wide. “You ratted me out?”
Rawley puts his hand over the top of his brother’s head, patting. “I didn’t. I told her it was me. But would you believe that when she found Dawn dish soap in her body wash that she figured out it was you?”
Archie’s eyes well up, and Rawley stops them with asimple palm to his cheek, brief but tender. “It’s okay. She wasn’t mad.”
Tanner looks my way. “Arch was trying to help mom and do laundry and, TLDR, the machine ain’t running anymore.”
I look around the house at the explosion of clothing. It makes sense now. “So that’s why it looks like this,” I comment.
Tanner laughs. “No, it always looks like this. But that is why there’s a stank in the air.”
Rawley sniffs. “I think that’s Archie.”
Archie sniffs, and sniffs again, and gets caught up in over the top sniffing until he falls over laughing and coughing. Rawley laughs, but pulls him up by his shirt. “Finish your food. You have to take a bath. Mom said.”
My eyes veer off to the small hallway adjacent to the living room. There’s a door pushed open, and from here, I can spot the edge of a dryer, leading me to believe it’s the laundry room. I take off my hat and place it atop a pile of mail-covered in crushed peanut shells. “Mind if I take a look at the washer? I’m good at fixing things.”
Rawley sits up a little straighter, sliding his empty box of food onto the table, sending a cup of pennies and pistachios to the floor. “Yeah? You think you can fix it?” he asks, suddenly interested.
I shrug. “Not certain but I can try. Fixed my mom and pop’s machine a few times.”
Archie faces me with hopeful, wide eyes, and something blooms behind my ribs at the honest, sweetness in him. “Yeah? Can you fix it? Oh Coach, if you fix it, oh man. I’ll owe you so big. My mama’s gonna be so happy if you can.”
I get to my feet and make a move toward the hall, because telling me that washing machine working will make Clara June, the prettiest little woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, happy?I hook my chin toward Rawley as I pass him. “Let me have a look.”
He gets to his feet, and I stop, toe to toe with him. He glances at Tanner, who seems to be aware of what’s happening. But I’m not. Rawley clears his throat. “You care if I watch? You know, in case Archie decides to stick a hanger in the dryer or something, that way I’ll know how to fix stuff. Maybe.”
I’ve taught a lot of students about George Washington, the British Army, the Boston Massacre (which coincidentally led to a lesson about where Boston is located—yes, that’s true), football plays, sports etiquette, locker room rules and so much more.
“I’ve never really fixed things in a teachable way,” I admit, following him into the tiny room where I bend down to run my hands up the sides of the washing machine, searching for the front panel clips. “And I could be doing things differently than a person trained in fixing things but,” I find a clip and bend it, then move aside, nodding toward the other side. “I’ll do what I can. Now, reach around the back, there’s a metal clip that holds the front panel on. It’s toward the bottom. When you find it, pull back.”
Rawley nods his head as Archie appears with a small pink tool box. “Mama’s tools. If you need ‘em.”
I pop open the small, plastic box to find a screwdriver—Phillips with a set of adjustable heads band the bottom in thick black rubber—a hammer that would probably struggle to send a nail through butter, a measuring tape (which is so rusted, I’m only guessing what it is based on the shape), a plastic box of drywall screws, three marbles, a Band-Aid, and what appears to be a decapitated Ken doll. I set my eyes on Archie.
“Some of my stuff is in there, too,” he says, and I noticenow he’s wearing my hat. I tug it down then knock it up, adjusting it so it looks right.
