Roll

  “Excellent,” I say, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

  Aiden grins. “You look like a supervillain.”

  “The Chocolate Chip Menace,” I say, dropping my voice as low as it will go. Which isn’t very low.

  “You might want to work on that,” Aiden observes. He pulls a Tupperware container out of his backpack, hands it to me, and then tosses the bag onto the couch. “So anyway, my mom said she’ll be here around eleven.”

  I pry open the cover of the Tupperware. The sweet, sweet aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies floods the air.

  Seriously. They’re the best.

  “Cool,” I tell Aiden. Stuffing an entire cookie in my mouth, I lead the way toward the basement. “That means another ten bucks each to spend at Three Men.”

  Aiden follows me down the stairs. “Speaking of which, did you hear about the new Marvel casting? There’s no way he’s going to get the Gambit accent right. . . .”

  An hour and a half later, Aiden and I have discussed the following things: whether or not anyone can actually pull off a Cajun accent (I voted no), how much puke a human body can hold (a lot), and how many teachers secretly pick their noses when they think no one is looking (at least three that we can think of).

  We’ve also sorted through about six tons of accumulated junk, including three boxes full of jam jars, a stack of National Geographic magazines from the mid-2000s, a suitcase stuffed with old winter coats, and fourteen empty kitty litter containers.

  “What’s in here?” Aiden asks, grunting a little as he drags a large cardboard box into the center of the floor. “It’s heavy.”

  Marking the article on earthquakes that I’m reading, I set the National Geographic aside and join Aiden. There’s a thick coating of dust on top of the box, and we both cough a little as he pulls open the flaps.

  “Whoa,” he says, peering down into the box. “What, did your grandma rob a trophy store?”

  I reach inside, pulling out the tallest trophy. It’s so big that I have to use both hands. “Graham Hall,” I read aloud. “1986 Minnesota State Runner-up, Boys 3200 Meters.”

  Aiden pulls another trophy out of the box, brushing the bottom of it off with his shirt. “This one’s for the Boys 1600 Meters.” His eyes widen a little as he reads the next line. “Four minutes and ten seconds? Are you serious? Your dad ran a mile in four minutes? That’s impossible!”

  I set the trophy I’m holding down before I drop it.

  “I guess so,” I say, trying not to think about how long it takes me to run a mile. When I manage to make it a mile without stopping, that is.

  “Impossible,” Aiden repeats, grinning. “He’s like The Flash.”

  Only Dad doesn’t even know who The Flash is. He was asking me about him one time, and he called him The Flasher.

  “There’s got to be, like, two dozen of these,” Aiden says, digging through the trophy box. “Hey, did you know your dad did long jump, too?” he asks, holding up a fake-gold medal strung on a red, white, and blue ribbon. “Twenty-one feet.”

  Twenty-one feet. That’s almost five times as tall as I am.

  I’m feeling a little sick all of a sudden. I probably had too many of Mrs. Sorenson’s cookies. Or maybe it was the Oreos.

  “And look, some of these are even from college,” Aiden says. “The Badgers, wherever they’re from.”

  “Wisconsin,” I say. “He went to college in Wisconsin.”

  “Ah. The Land of Cheese,” Aiden says wisely.

  I manage a smile, somehow. “Anyway, we should probably call it a day,” I say. “Won’t your mom be here soon?”

  Aiden pulls out his phone to check. “Oh, yeah. I’m going to go change quick, okay? Just in case we run into anyone.”

  I stare after him in confusion as he heads for the steps. Who would we possibly run into at Three Men and a Comic Book? Honestly, I don’t know how Mike even manages to stay in business; it always seems like Aiden and I are the only ones there.

  As he disappears up the stairs, I pack the trophies back into their box, doing my best not to read the other plaques.

  Something tells me I don’t want to know what they say.

  CHAPTER 9

  MRS. SORENSON DRIVES really, really slowly up our driveway, making sure not to kick up any dust on her pristine Mercedes SUV.

  As I climb in the car, I notice that the shirt Aiden’s changed into is new. Which sounds like a creepy thing to say, but until we moved earlier this summer, I spent almost every day with him. Sadly, I know his wardrobe like the back of my hand.

  Which is kind of a weird expression, when you think about it. After all, who’s just sitting around, staring at the backs of their hands?

  Anyway, Aiden’s shirt is pretty memorable; a pale blue, short-sleeved button-down covered with tiny dolphins.

  It’s . . . interesting.

  Especially since, like me, 99 percent of his usual wardrobe consists of comic book T-shirts. I’m wearing my old Green Hornet one today. Even though it’s a small, it’s about two sizes too big for me.

  “New shirt?” I ask Aiden.

  He shrugs. “Yeah. I grew again.”

  Now that I think about it, Aiden does look bigger. His knees are almost touching the back of his mom’s seat, and his shoulders kind of stick straight out, instead of sloping down like they used to. Even his elbows look bigger.

  My Green Hornet shirt would probably fit him perfectly.

  “Dolphins,” I observe. “I didn’t know you were into dolphins.”

  He looks confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your shirt,” I say, gesturing toward his chest.

  Aiden looks down, then shrugs. “It’s just a shirt,” he says.

  I nod.

  He’s right, I guess.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Sorenson pulls up in front of Three Men, leaving the SUV idling. “Don’t worry, I won’t come in and embarrass you. Twenty minutes, okay? I have to get back to work soon.”

  “Fine,” Aiden says.

  “Okay, Mrs. Sorenson,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt. “Thanks for taking us.”

  She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Have fun.”

  I open the door and hop out of the car. Literally. The SUV is so far off the ground that my legs can’t reach.

  I hate being short.

  Much like the faded, blue-and-white-striped awning outside, the rest of Mike’s store has seen better days, too. The buzzing fluorescent lights only make it easier to see the stains on the carpet, the cashier’s counter is littered with disposable coffee cups, and it’s always freezing in the winter, because Mike’s worried about the heating bill.

  Mom says Three Men lacks “a woman’s touch.”

  Anyway, I don’t have a problem with the way Three Men looks. After all, Mike isn’t selling accessories. He’s selling comics.

  And he has them all.

  Row after row of display shelves line the walls, all of them stuffed full. There are your standard superhero comics, like Batman, Superman, Captain America, etc. Sci-fi ones, like eXistenZ or Orbiter. Tons of manga, then fantasy, crime, autobiographical, fumetti neri . . .

  Let’s just say if they make it, Mike’s got it.

  Or he can order it for you.

  The tiny bell over the door gives a strangled ring as we push our way inside. As usual, the door sticks a little in the humidity. Mike’s chair behind the counter is empty. Twenty bucks says he’s in back, microwaving his lunch.

  I take a breath, inhaling deeply. “Chicken pot pie,” I tell Aiden. “Definitely.”

  Aiden and I have a standing competition called “Guess That Odor!” when it comes to Mike’s lunch. It started last summer, when Mike was going through his “Make-His-Own-Kimchee” phase.

  I looked it up, and kimchee is basically fermented cabbage.

  Let me repeat that. Fermented cabbage.

  It was . . . unpleasant.

  Aiden gives the air a sniff as I head for the barg
ain bin of comics sitting against the far wall. You can find some awesome stuff hidden in there, if you look hard enough. Especially since not a lot of kids tend to like the same stuff I do. Basically, if it’s not written between 1956 and 1970, I’m not interested. Except for Bananaman, of course, but even that’s a throwback to the Silver Age.

  “I don’t know,” Aiden says. His phone chimes in his pocket. He pulls it out, grinning a little as he reads the message. “Soup?”

  “Soup?” I repeat. “That’s the best you can do?”

  He doesn’t look up as he taps out a message in reply.

  “Come on,” I coax. “You didn’t even guess what kind of soup.” I flip through the half-price comics, pretending to read the issue numbers.

  Aiden slides his phone back into his pocket. “Chicken noodle?”

  To be fair, the odor wafting its way beneath the door is distinctly chicken-y. But I can tell he isn’t trying.

  “Who’s texting you?” I ask, trying not to let my voice sound weird. My fingers are flipping faster through the comics now. Power Girl. Original Sin. Daredevil.

  “Just Kurt.” Aiden isn’t purposefully not looking at me, but he’s not purposefully not looking at me, either.

  “Kurt,” I repeat. “What’s old Kurt up to today?” I ask. Old Kurt? What am I talking about? Have I somehow turned into Dad without realizing it?

  “Nothing.” Aiden feigns interest in the latest Walking Dead issue. “Just checking in.” Aiden doesn’t like The Walking Dead. He’s strictly Marvel. X-Men, to be exact. I think he has a thing for Jean Grey. Anyway, he thinks the zombie apocalypse is played out.

  I flip past another Daredevil. “Checking in?” Flip. Captain America. “You guys check in with each other now?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of.” Aiden’s eyes dart toward me for a second, then away. “He’s trying to talk me into going out for basketball with him.”

  Flip, flip, flip. I’m not even looking at the comics now.

  “But you don’t even play basketball,” I say.

  “I didn’t used to. But I’m tall now. Maybe I’ll be good at it.”

  “You don’t know that,” I argue. “Correlation does not imply causation. Don’t you remember science class?”

  Aiden shoots me an annoyed look. Science has never been his best subject. He didn’t even want to join the Arduino Challenge team last year, even though it meant a whole day off school for the competition. In the end, it was just Sarah Stockdale and me.

  We placed second, by the way.

  “Yeah, well, not all of us are as into science as you are,” Aiden says. “Anyway, what’s the big deal? You’re going out for cross-country, but you don’t see me freaking out about it.”

  “But you don’t even like basketball,” I say. “You told me any sport where you have to wear a tank top isn’t worth it.”

  Aiden shrugs. “Yeah, well . . . Things change, I guess. Hey, look, they have the new X-Men. Awesome.”

  Things change.

  And just like that, standing in the hot, vaguely chicken-y smelling front room of Three Men and a Comic, I feel something in our friendship shift.

  Something big.

  Flip.

  CHAPTER 10

  I FALL ASLEEP to Bananaman episodes that night, my laptop balanced on my nightstand.

  A familiar knocking sound wakes me.

  “Ren?”

  I groan, opening my eyes just a crack. It’s still dark. Why is Dad waking me up when it’s still dark?

  “Can I come in?” Dad calls through the door.

  I turn to look out the window.

  No wonder it still seems like the middle of the night; thick, black thunderclouds crowd against one another, darkening the early-morning sky. It isn’t raining yet, but I can see the wind whipping through the tree branches, shaking the leaves like giant pom-poms.

  I’m not seriously supposed to run in this, am I?

  “It’s going to thunderstorm,” I call back. “Do you want me to be struck by lightning?”

  Dad opens the door. “Yes. I want my only son to be struck by lightning. How did you guess?”

  “Ha ha.”

  He grins. “It’s not supposed to rain until seven, by the way. I’m heading out, but I wanted to let you know Mom got called in early, so you didn’t worry.” His expression turns serious. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve been working lately, kiddo. Now that you’re putting the effort in, your totals are really starting to shape up. I’m proud of you. You deserve a day off.”

  I shift uncomfortably in bed, not quite meeting his eye.

  I drew a straight line on my chart yesterday, even though I’d only run half a mile.

  I’ve never done that before. I’ve never cheated.

  “Anyway,” Dad says, tapping the door with his fingers. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  I mumble something unintelligible, then pull the blankets over my head.

  As the door clicks shut behind him, I stay hidden beneath the covers, breathing shallowly. I’m not going to lie; it’s a little musky under here. I should probably get around to washing my sheets.

  I emerge from my cave, settling my head back into the pillow. Closing my eyes, I lie there and wait to fall back asleep.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  It’s no good. How am I supposed to sleep when I’m feeling so guilty?

  Kicking back my covers, I dig through my hamper for clean-ish running clothes.

  If I hurry, I can make it down in time for Dad to see me.

  Ten minutes later, I’m cursing the fact I didn’t stay in bed.

  Despite Dad’s promise that it would hold off, a cold rain is starting to fall, making it hard to see. Why don’t they make windshield wipers for your glasses?

  I make a mental note to add that to my list of inventions. Someday, when I’m old enough to file a patent, I’m going to be rich.

  By the time I reach Sutton’s driveway, I’m breathing heavily, and my right side is starting to throb again. I ball my fist to my hip, trying to “run through the pain” like one of Dad’s running shirts says.

  It’s no good.

  I don’t want to run through the pain.

  I want to stop.

  The rain is growing heavier. The wind picks up, gusting cold sheets of water over my head.

  Sheets. Yet another reminder to do my laundry.

  I eye the trees lining the driveway, trying to calculate the risk of being killed by a falling branch. Deciding I like my odds, I head for their relative shelter.

  Taking off my glasses, I wipe them with the bottom of my shirt.

  Excellent. Now they’re wet and smeary.

  As I put my glasses back on, I can just make out a blurry shape hurrying down the steps of Sutton’s house.

  A second later, I hear the sound of an engine turning over. The red station wagon pulls out, making its way down the driveway.

  I fight the urge to duck behind a tree trunk and hide. The car slows to a stop in front of me, and a lady who must be Sutton’s mom lowers her window. “Hi, there! Everything okay?”

  Even with my smeary glasses, I can tell that Sutton’s mom doesn’t look old enough to be a mom. Her blonde hair is long and wavy, and she’s wearing a lot of eye makeup for six thirty in the morning.

  “Sorry. I got a side ache, and it started raining, so . . .” I trail off.

  “You must be Lauren. That’s quite a name.”

  “Yep,” I agree. “Quite a name.”

  She gives me a bright smile. “Sutton mentioned you’d stopped by before. I’m Eva. It’s so nice to meet you!”

  “Oh. Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by and welcome you to the neighborhood, but you know how it is.” She gives a little laugh.

  I clear my throat. “That’s okay. We just moved from town, so it’s not like we’re new, or anything.”

  “Can I give
you a ride?” Sutton’s mom asks. “I’m heading in that direction. Or you know what?” she says, brightening. “Why don’t you just go inside the house? I have to get to the hospital, but I made a huge breakfast. Sutton could use some help eating it all.”

  I can’t help wondering what the inside of Sutton’s house looks like.

  Also, breakfast.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Of course! I’ve got to run, but head right in.” She smiles, shooing me toward the house as she rolls up her window.

  When I get to the steps, though, I hesitate. Am I really going to knock on Sutton’s door? Just like that? Out of nowhere?

  A burst of rain answers my question for me. Ducking my head, I take the steps two at a time.

  Raising my hand, I knock, quietly at first, and then, as another gust of rain drenches me, louder. “Sutton? Are you in there? It’s Ren.”

  A second later, Sutton pulls open the door. She looks confused. “Hey. What are you doing here? I’m not flying today.”

  “No, I know,” I say quickly. “I was out running, and it started to rain, and your mom saw me . . .”

  Sutton’s face clears in understanding. “Let me guess. She told you I needed help eating all the food she made.” Pushing the screen door open, she lets me in.

  “Thanks.”

  I step inside, dripping water, and do my best to look around without being too obvious about it. The layout of Sutton’s house is familiar: same narrow entrance hall, same steep wooden steps, same stained glass insert over the kitchen door. But whereas our house is meticulously neat, with fresh flowers on the hall table and embarrassing yearbook photos of me already lining the walls, Sutton’s house is . . . not.

  Not like it’s dirty, or anything; the floor looks clean enough. But there are piles of . . . stuff . . . everywhere. Stacks of folded laundry sit on the steps, a heap of magazines overflows the side table, and a box full of cookie cutters sits in the middle of the hallway. Even though they’ve technically been here longer than us, their walls are still bare, and the only decoration I can see is a takeout menu from Arriba, the local Mexican restaurant, pinned to the corkboard next to the door.