Summer was given ample time to finish up 11th grade here. He screwed up all season, was late to class, handed in assignments whenever he felt like it, and was surly (what’s new?) at every opportunity. He should have graduated September 21 and was, I’ll admit, a bit chastened that weekend. But since then he’s been back every day, taunting the new season and acting like an asshole. Temps in the mid-eighties today– you KNOW Autumn had no part in that.
So while Autumn tries to do her thing with some decorum (and she has ever been a poised and pretty girl), Summer continues to catcall and display both middle fingers. So rude. He hot-dogs around on a banana seat bike, cards flapping in the bike’s spokes, wearing cut-offs so short the pockets are exposed; his bare and muscled torso is tanned and shiny with sweat. I yell at Summer, “Get off the damn lawn! Go away you hooligan!”
I grumble as I close the door so the air-conditioning doesn’t escape; “…back in my day seasons had manners…” From inside I can hear his insolent reply, “Hey lady, fuck you!”