GWWE: "Creepy Crawlies"

At lunch today, I tackled the next scene in my book. Susan suggested I answer the prompt with my book in mind. So this scene was written for my current manuscript—but with these guidelines:

• your post must include a spider of some sort
• your post must include the phrase: So Brian, what do you think?
• tell us something true about yourself whether you identify it that way or not
• tag with gwwe
• publish by March 8th

 

“Creepy Crawlies”

Brian presses the keypad by the garage door, and I look away. Then the door opens and reveals a row of shiny cars—black, silver, red—showcased on a speckled floor. The walls, painted a soft grey, boast pictures of more cars—more symbols of wealth.

Before we enter the house, he turns. “Don’t judge me by all of this, okay? It’s where I live—but it’s not who I am.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking of the tiny apartment that I now call home.

Then the door opens into the house— to the sound of soft music and a hint of what was for dinner. Brian removes his shoes and places them in a cubby, and I do the same. The small room opens into the kitchen, which opens to a family room, and both rooms boast breathtakingly high ceilings. I look up and can’t help but feel small.

“Callie.” Brian nudges me. “This is my mom.”

“Oh, hi,” I say.

His mother turns and crosses the kitchen with a smile. She is gorgeous, flawlessly beautiful. But when her eyes rest on her son, her smile fades, revealing concern. “What happened, Brian?”

“I got in a fight.”

“Oh, honey…why?”

“It was my fault,” I interject. “This guy wouldn’t leave me alone, and he was pretty drunk, and well, it was a good thing Brian showed up when he did.”

“Yep,” a gruff voice comes from behind us. “If there’s trouble, Brian will find it.”

I turn, and Brian offers, “Callie, this is my step-dad.”

His step-dad thrusts a hand in my direction. “Tom Jacobs.” His handshake, firm and confident.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he says. “Now don’t listen to a word he says about me.”

“Okay.” I smile, uneasy.

He turns and pulls a cookie out of the jar. “Have a cookie, Callie. Debra makes the best cookies—almost as sweet as she is.” He winks at her.

“He’s so charming,” she begins, “you can see why I married him, can’t you?”

I laugh softly, and Brian and I take a seat at the kitchen bar. Soon two plates, topped with cookies, sit next to tall glasses of milk.

Tom leans on the counter. “What did you do today?”

“I, uh, trimmed the hedges and swept the back patio.”

“And while you were on the patio, did you happen to look up?

“I dunno.”

“Well, I did. When I came home for work tonight, I headed out to the back porch and glanced up and found a canopy of spider webs looming overhead. Didn’t I tell you to do that?”

“Yeah, I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“Yeah…I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So Brian, what do you think?  What do you think would happen if I show up to work in the morning, and I tell all my patients that I will do it tomorrow. You know what would happen? They would die. I take my job seriously, and so should you.” I just sit there, eating my cookie, and I don’t even glance at Brian, who says nothing. “Listen, Son, your job is to do what I tell you to do. And your payment for doing a good job is the opportunity to live here. Maybe I should withhold payment today. Maybe you should sleep outside with the—”

“Tom, we have company,” Brian’s mom interjects.

He ignores her. “…with those damn spiders that are taking over my damn porch.”

“Fine.” Brian pushes his plate forward. “I’ll do it now.”

Tom’s voice rises. “Show me gratitude not attitude, young man. You understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Callie.” He nods to me, and then looks at Brian. “Why don’t you walk this young lady out to her car now?”

I push the plate forward. “Thanks for, um, the cookies.”

His mother leans in with that striking smile. “Oh, you’re welcome, and come back anytime, sweetie.”

“Okay,” I say and make a beeline for my shoes and the door.

We walk in silence to my car. I press the unlock button and the lights flash, illuminating the dark driveway. “Okay, goodnight,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah…tomorrow.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for dropping me off.”

“I’m sorry, Brian.”

“For what?’

“I don’t know.” I eye the huge house and consider his step-dad. “But I’m really sorry.”

 

Kimberly Blackadar, former teacher and now author of Nothing but Trouble after Midnight, writes teen fiction and speaks to schools across the nation about reading and the writing process. Connect with Kimberly on her Facebook fan page and her blog.