JEREMY DRIVES HIS MOM’S LEXUS LIKE HE’S THE ONE who bought it. He pulls up in front of our house, raises the volume on the radio and leaves the AC blasting. Waits to see if I’ll come out. Our neighbours, a retired white couple, rear up from their gardening. The woman is on the verge of asking him to stop idling the car. It’s twenty-eight degrees out, pre-humidex.
Despite the heat, he’s lubed into a distressed-leather motorcycle jacket. It’s a step up from his Weapons of Mass Destruction shirt, the one with arrows pointing to his biceps. Jeremy and I were born ten months apart, which I take as proof that Chinese astrology is bullshit. He’s something that I’ve inherited, like a tendency to developing skin tags.
After five minutes he knocks on the door. I wait until my mother calls up befor
