A Place So Wicked by Patrick Reuman (life books to read txt) 📕

picking up small sticks that had fallen from the big tree in the front yard and was chucking them out into the road, which may not have been the best solution to their problem, but neither of them had brought out a garbage bag.

He unscrewed the cap and checked for fuel. The black fluid moved and glimmered in the sliver of light snaking in through the tiny circular opening. A car drove by. His sister waited until it passed and was gone before throwing another stick out into the street.

He revved the machine to life. It immediately started spewing grass from its side. It tugged a little, egging Toby to push it forward. Paisley came over and started leading Toby through the yard, scanning the grass for objects that could be dangerous to the mower’s blades.

She looked down, and her face cringed. She mumbled something that drowned under the roar of the mower and then wiped her hand off on her jeans. They continued, the mower chopping away the grass ahead of Toby. Paisley glanced at Toby and said something, but he still didn’t catch it over the lawnmower.

They were halfway through the front lawn when she wiped her hand again. Toby noticed some grass on her pants, only it was up high where Paisley had wiped her hand off. He squinted against the sun trying to look closer but wasn’t succeeding.

She finally stopped abruptly, forcing Toby to yank the mower back to not ram into her. He reached down and turned it off, bringing the racket to silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She was picking at her skin. “I’ve got this shit on my hands.”

He went around the mower and stood alongside his sister. There was green stuff on the palms of her hands, on her fingers as well, and on her pants. Up closer, the green on her pants no longer looked like grass at all.

“Let me see.” He grabbed her hand and turned her palm face-up toward him.

He scraped his fingernail along her skin. She yanked her hand away.

“Watch it!”

“Quit being a baby,” he said. “I’m just trying to see what it is.”

He looked down at his own finger now. Some of what had been on her hand had come off on his fingernail. He picked at it with his other hand.

“What in the hell?” he mumbled.

“It looks like paint or something,” she said.

He knelt and plucked a blade of grass from the lawn. Holding it, up, he looked closely at it. It looked exactly like a normal blade of grass. Until he scratched at it with his finger. The green came right off. Underneath was a light, faded brown color, almost tan.

The grass looked like it was dead. But that couldn’t be. Why would it be dead? He knelt again, crouching to his knees. He started pushing the grass to the side like he was combing through someone’s hair for lice. As he did so, green started coming off, coating his hand in a thin layer of what had to be paint.

He yanked an entire tuft of grass from the dirt. At the base of all the blades were the tiniest signs of brown. He knew that if he were to scrape at them, more brown would be uncovered. The dirt below caught his attention. It looked…black. He scooped up a small pile and let it tumble out between his fingers.

What in the hell?

Paisley crouched beside him. He scooped up another small pile of dirt. It was black, all except where little frays of brown grass mixed in with it, the brown so old and faded it almost looked more white than brown. It looked like he imagined dirt would look if it were set on fire and allowed to burn out. But why would someone burn the dirt in the yard? And it didn’t feel anything like ash. Ash had a smooth texture to it, like ground chalk. This, well, this was just dirt, only black instead of brown.

“That’s the dirt?” she said, confused.

“I guess. It looks like someone painted the grass.”

“Why would they do that?”

Toby stood. “I’m not sure. I know they do that in places like California to hide the dead grass because it’s all hot and what-not there, so there’s lots of dead grass. But…this is New York. I don’t know why you’d need that here.”

“Is the whole yard like that?”

He wasn’t sure. Maybe they’d just run over a patch of dead grass or something. He walked about ten feet away and crouched to pull another tuft of grass from the ground. He held it up and saw the brown at the base and scratched at the blades.

Green came off.

He shook his head. “Same over here.”

“Here, too,” she said, standing near the edge of the yard with grass in her hand.

If he was guessing correctly, the entire front yard was made up of painted dead grass. He looked down, at the black soil. He wasn’t sure which part unnerved him more, the dead grass or the black dirt.

“Should we finish the yard?” Paisley asked.

Toby shrugged. He wasn’t really sure if the painted yard was even that big of a deal. Maybe even his dad already knew about it. If he did, Toby wished his father would have mentioned that bit of information before they started mowing.

“I guess so,” Toby said.

He walked back to the mower and grabbed hold of the pully. He gave it a yank, but the mower only sputtered. He pulled again. It revved and groaned, but it didn’t start. Toby was no lawnmower mechanic, but something was obviously wrong with it.

Maybe Paisley had missed a stick. Maybe he accidently ran it over and somehow hadn’t noticed. He tipped it over on its side to check the blades. He heard Paisley gasp before he even saw what