We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

“That weathered old pine really stands the test of time,” Ike says.

“Stained up real nice so you can see the grain,” Garry replies.

“This plywood’s got no business being anywhere but a scrap pile,” Ike says.

Garry agrees.

They talk about the wood a bit longer among themselves, not saying another word to me, or to Chad, who by bringing in this inferior specimen of wood has been knocked down a peg or two. Not quite as far down as me, but nearly. After a few minutes of this, they zip up their measuring tapes and carry on down Main Street.

The substandard plank is still leaning precariously against the railing. And it’s all so pathetic. Like anything that touches our store turns to rot. I was over it before we started on this project, but now I really am. And, soon enough, all this will be Penny’s problem.

Chad clears his throat. I spin around and glare at him for inventing all this trouble today when I have more than enough without his help.

“We done?” I ask him.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can, I’m heading up the stairs, answering on his behalf. We’re done.

Inside, Ira has fallen asleep in his chair. I cover him with a blanket and check my email. I have contacted a few bulk book buyers about purchasing the entire collection. A few have written back, asking for an inventory, which we don’t have, but I can estimate. They don’t pay much, dimes on the dollar, but it’ll give us some income, as will the money from the sale of the building. Not a lot, but it’ll be enough to get out of here, away from the rain and the rot, the Lumberjacks and Best-Life Bros. Away from it all.

Ira’s still asleep when a pickup truck pulls up, its phlegmy engine rattling. I pay it no mind until I hear voices out front. Garry and Richie are hauling two giant planks of wood from the bed of a truck. They’re trailed by Chad—who either left and came back, or never left—and Ike, who’s gripping a toolbox that makes Chad’s look like a jewelry box.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“What’s going on,” Richie says, as he and Garry start pulling down the plywood ramp that we just built, “is we’re gonna build you a real ramp.”

Real ramp. Chad winces.

“Hold up. We never discussed this,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” Ike says. “We spent a good twenty minutes discussing it.”

“No, you discussed it. With each other.”

Ike taps his nose, which is crooked, like it’s been busted on more than one occasion.

“You never asked me if it was okay,” I tell him. “Or my father.”

“You’d rather have a flimsy piece of plywood than these nice rough-cut boards?” Ike asks.

“I’d rather have none of it!”

“But how’s your friend here gonna get in the store?”

“Chad,” clarifies Chad right as I say, “I hardly know him.”

“How’s Chad, who you hardly know, gonna get in your store?” Ike asks.

The same way he’s always gotten in. By not coming in.

“We got all the equipment here,” Ike says, scraping his work boot against the pavement.

“But you never asked. And we can’t pay for it.”

“Who said anything about paying for anything?”

Does he think I’m an idiot? Does he think I don’t recognize a Lucy when I see one? The joke’s on you, bub, because I grew up with the worst Lucy of them all.

Lucy, by the way, is from Peanuts. When me and Sandy were kids, we loved those comics. Sandy got a particular thrill out of that running gag where Lucy holds the football for Charlie Brown and every time he runs to kick it, she yanks it away at the last minute and he winds up on his back. He thought it was just so funny that Charlie Brown fell for it, over and over again. This was a sign, I guess, but I was too young or too in awe of my older brother to heed it. Not even a few years later, when Sandy got cooler and then crueler and started doing things like inviting me to come into his room only to pants me while his friend Caleb snapped a picture. Or begging me to hang out with him and watch TV all day Saturday, only to spend Sunday pretending I didn’t exist.

It took me a long time, much longer than it should have, to realize Sandy was Lucy. And I was Charlie Brown. But I’m not as stupid as I once was, so I tell Ike we won’t be needing any of his ramp-building services.

And maybe that would have been the end of it. But then Ira shuffles barefoot onto the porch, blinking awake from his nap. “There you are,” he says dopily before turning toward the sidewalk assemblage and nodding. “Hello, Ike.”

“Ira,” Ike replies tersely.

“What brings you here? Need a book?”

“If it’s all right by you, we’re gonna fix this ramp up proper.”

Ira blinks, twice, still not fully awake. “Oh, sure.” He goes back inside, without even thinking about it. Without even asking me.

Ike smirks, as if that settles it. But it settles nothing. Ira’s not even the legal owner of the store. And in another month, neither will I be.

It hits me, belatedly, that Penny might not want a wheelchair ramp. But she definitely will not want the shoddy one we half built. And after years of being Lucied, maybe it’s time for me to yank the football. So I tell Ike to fix the ramp. “Just don’t expect me to pay for it.”

For the next few hours, I listen to the sound of hammering, sawing, man sounds coming from outside while inside I stew. Because I know the other shoe is going to drop. They’ll come in here in a few hours extorting large sums of money.

At five, Ira heads upstairs to make dinner, so it’s just me in the store when