“What are you doing?” Okay, I know I heard it that time.
“Hello?” It takes me a moment to notice the movement in the back corner of the yard. There’s a wooden fence that separates our house from Detective Dickwad’s and in the far corner two of the slats have come loose. I really need to talk to Dad about getting those fixed, but I keep forgetting and since that house had been empty for so long it wasn’t high on my list of priorities. I’m really regretting it now since there is a tiny light blond head poking through the open space and staring at me.
I tilt my head to the side and examine the tiny human closely.
“Hey, are you spying on me?” I ask with what is probably a harsher tone than is called for. Give me a break, I was surprised.
“Sorry,” the little voice says at almost a whisper. “I just wanted to know what you were doing.” He looks so dejected that I feel like an ass. Well, great.
Now, it’s widely known that I am not a fan of children. Like, at all. I avoid them like the plague… which is something they probably spread. To me, they’re nothing more than tiny little demons filled with germs, snot, and sticky hands.
What can I say? Some people are born with that paternal instinct. I was decidedly not. Still, this kid is apparently my neighbor so I should at least try to be nice. Besides, he soundslike he might cry and the only thing worse than a child is a crying one.
“Uh, I’m just painting. Do you want to see?” I ask with trepidation, hoping he’ll retreat to his own yard.
“Okay!” The next thing I know he’s squeezed through the tiny hole in the fence and is stomping towards me directly through the flower beds. I guess it’s a good thing Violet didn’t get around to planting anything this year.
By the time he gets closer I’ve noted he also appears to have hazel green eyes. I glance at the iris on my canvas and back at him. Yup, there’s a definite resemblance. I can only assume that this is Detective Dickwad’s son. And that’ll put the kibosh on my little crush right there. If I wasn’t interested before when he was just a hot jerk, I’m certainly not interested now that I know he comes packaged with a tiny snot machine.
The kid passes by me and comes to a stop directly in front of the easel, standing there silently, tilting his head this way and that, studying the painting like he’s really trying to understand it.
After taking his time he turns to look at me with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Bianca. What’s yours?”
“I’m Oliver.”
How do you introduce yourself to a kid? “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Oliver. I guess we’re neighbors.” I stick out my hand for him to shake and he eyes it before lightly sliding his into my grasp and pumping my hand up and down. Yup, sticky fingers. I should have known.
Once we’ve dropped hands I resist the urge to wipe my fingers off on my shirt. “So, what were you doing over there?” I ask indicating his yard with a jerk of my head.
“Playing with my trucks.”
Okay, well, I don’t have anything to relate to that. Suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Does your dad know that you’re here? Is he going to be mad?” The last thing I want is to have another confrontation with that guy. He’ll probably threaten to arrest me for child abduction or something.
“I don’t have a dad,” he says quietly. I can’t help but let the surprise show on my face but I don’t think a kid as young as him can pick up on that, right?
“Then who do you live with over there?” I ask, now a little suspicious.
“Uncle Carson. Sometimes, I call him Uncle Car.” Okay, so he lives with his uncle for some reason. That also solves the mystery of Detective Dickwad’s name. Carson. Fuck, I wish it wasn’t sexy, but it totally is.
“How about your mom?”
“She’s dead.” His voice is monotone as if he’s stating a simple fact like the grass is green or the sky is blue. He’s also staring unflinchingly into my eyes. I’m a little flabbergasted. What do you say to a kid with a dead mom?
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Oliver just shrugs his shoulders at me like it’s no big deal then turns back to the painting. “What is that?”
“It’s a painting I’m working on. Do you like to paint?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember if I’ve ever done it.” Somehow that makes me sadder than the dead mom. Painting is such a source of joy for me, and this kid doesn’t even know if he’s ever done it before?
“Well, do you color or draw?” I ask. He just shakes his head. What the hell is wrong with his uncle? Kids should always have art supplies around, right? Isn’t that how they express themselves? I’m pretty sure I was coloring before I could walk or talk. “How about I get you some paper and pencils and you can try drawing something of your own?”
His face lights up and he nods at me enthusiastically. I head over to the small table we have outside that I’ve stacked with miscellaneous art supplies. Grabbing my sketchpad along with a brand new one and a few graphite pencils, I turn around to hand them over and almost jump out of my skin. The kid is standing not three inches away from me. I put my hand to my chest like it’s going to help slow my racing heart. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“You’ll let me use those?” he asks with a little bit of awe in his voice. Are all kids like this or is it only him? He’s a weird mixture of enthusiasm, awe, and a deep sadness that’s almost palpable. I’m not sure how to handle him.