Roll

  CHAPTER 15

  I’M A LITTLE bit nervous when Aiden’s mom drops him off on Tuesday morning. We haven’t really talked since the not-quite-a-fight we had at the comic book store last week.

  To be honest, I wasn’t even really sure if he was going to show up.

  “Hey,” I say as he lopes up the driveway. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah. It’s Tuesday, right?”

  “Right,” I say quickly. “I mean, yeah. Anyway, um, my mom says she’s going to take a load of stuff to the thrift store in Rochester this weekend, so we’re supposed to clear out as much as we can.”

  “Cool.” He follows me into the house.

  I can tell Aiden’s nervous, too; he keeps fidgeting with the neck of his T-shirt, tugging it back and forth. It’s oddly kind of reassuring. Like somehow the fact that we both feel weird makes it not weird anymore.

  I cast around for something to talk about. “So, um, did you see Shield last night?” I say, leading the way downstairs. It’s not my favorite show, but I know Aiden likes it.

  He nods. “Yeah. It was okay.”

  “Did they really have to be stuck on an airplane the whole time?” I ask. “I mean, if they were about to run out of fuel, why wouldn’t they have just landed somewhere?”

  “It’s called a bottle episode,” he says, pulling the lightbulb cord.

  “A what?”

  “A bottle episode. Just the regular cast, only one set . . . TV shows like them because they’re cheap. They don’t have to pay for other actors, or anything.”

  Huh. That makes sense, I guess.

  “I didn’t know that,” I tell Aiden.

  He shrugs a little. Grabbing a piece of stray newspaper from the floor, he crumples it into a ball and tosses it toward the empty box sitting in the corner. It lands inside with a soft thump.

  “Nice shot.”

  He spreads his arms wide. “What can I say? I’m the best there is at what I do.”

  I break into a grin. “But what you do best isn’t very nice,” I say, finishing the Wolverine quote for him.

  Aiden grins back at me, then starts pulling boxes out from underneath the staircase. “Ten bucks says there’s another dead mouse in one of these.”

  I stick out my hand. “Deal.”

  As we both kneel down and open a box, I feel a little blip of relief.

  I don’t know what I was worrying about, anyway.

  “So this is Mickey’s, huh?” Sutton asks later that afternoon, looking around dubiously.

  She takes a long slurp of her milk shake.

  I have to admit, as far as ambience goes, there isn’t much.

  Mickey’s sits at the edge of town, directly off Highway 63. It’s your typical drive-in, with a concrete canopy over the parking spaces and big striped umbrellas shading the picnic tables. They serve hot dogs, fries, milk shakes . . . I think you can even get a veggie burger, if you don’t mind it tasting like cardboard.

  It’s a few minutes past two, and the lunchtime crowd is pretty much gone; aside from a couple of cars on the opposite side of the canopy, we’re alone. “It’s not exactly the fanciest dining establishment,” I say.

  “They make a good milk shake.” Sutton shrugs, taking another drink. “I like the pineapple.”

  I give a little shudder. Fruit and ice cream should not be mixed.

  It feels weird to be out in public with Sutton, instead of at her house. Like we’re different people, somehow. Only the same.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” Sutton says. “You’re doing me a huge favor. Running errands with my mom is the worst. She always forgets something, and we have to go back to the same store twice.”

  Sutton called a couple of hours ago, right after Aiden went home for lunch, and asked if I wanted to go into town with her and her mom.

  “She should make a list.” I take a slurp of my chocolate malt. I always get extra malt powder, just a tiny bit of whipped cream, and no cherries. See above, re: fruit and ice cream.

  “She does,” Sutton says. “It doesn’t help.”

  “So we’re going to let Squirrel and Crow fly with the rest of the kit soon, right?” I ask, changing the subject. “They should have the hang of it by now.”

  Especially when you consider the fact that Crow is practically a pigeon genius. Like the other day, he pecked my hand after I fed him, and I’d swear he was saying thank you. I could almost hear him, you know?

  Anthropomorphism, my brain whispers. The attribution of human characteristics to an animal.

  I can’t help the fact I’m getting attached to the little guy, though. And the rest of the kit, too, after all the time I’ve spent with them. Even Squirrel has grown on me . . . in a strange, twitchy sort of way.

  My time down at the coop is paying off in more practical ways, too, like how I’m finally getting better at scoring. Sure, my neck and shoulders are constantly sore, there’s a weird tan line at the base of my throat from staring up at the kit, and I’m still nowhere near as good as Sutton, but I’m improving.

  It helped when I figured out the pigeons seem to roll at a fairly constant rate, between eight and twelve revolutions per second (I borrowed Mom’s phone, then slowed the footage down on YouTube. It’s easy, if you know what you’re doing). So instead of trying to guess how deep they’re rolling, I can just measure time instead. One second equals ten revolutions (per average), which equals fifteen feet. Two seconds equals thirty feet, and so on.

  I’m still not sure about math being cool, but it’s definitely helpful.

  I also came up with the idea of making a platform for the birds to land on just outside the coop’s door. A piece of plywood, some bracing boards, a couple of nails, and three Band-Aids later, we were in business. After the rest of the kit had headed back inside the coop, Sutton and I scattered some feed onto the platform, then let Squirrel and Crow out of their cage; they ate a few bites, and then we shooed them into the loft with the rest of the birds.

  Not to brag, but it worked like a charm.

  On a side note, did you know that the peas in pigeon feed mix look exactly like dried boogers? Just in case you were interested.

  “Yeah. You’re still coming over tonight to fill out the paperwork for the Fly, right?”

  “Definitely,” I say.

  “You know, I’ve only been in town a few times since we moved,” Sutton says, changing the subject again. “I keep expecting it to look like DC. Weird, huh?”

  “Kind of. Considering there’s, like, seven hundred thousand more people in Washington than there are here.” After that first morning at Sutton’s house, I looked some stuff up on the internet. Did you know that the Washington Monument is actually two different colors? Apparently they ran out of money halfway through building it.

  “Technically, I lived in Arlington. It’s a suburb.”

  “Still bigger than Westville, I bet.”

  Sutton reaches for one of the fries from the order we’re splitting. The great thing about Mickey’s is that they always throw a couple of onion rings in, too. My personal theory is that one onion ring is perfect, two are slightly too many, and anything over three is disgusting.

  “A little,” Sutton agrees. “So what do people do for fun around here?”

  “There’s the pool. And the bowling alley. And . . .” I trail off, trying to think.

  Sutton stares at me. “Two things?” she asks in disbelief. “Seriously? You can’t even think of a third?”

  “The library!” I say triumphantly, helping myself to a fry. “There’s a little lounge, with beanbags and stuff, and they let you bring liquids in, as long as you have a lid.”

  Sutton drops her head to the table. “I can’t believe we live here now,” she moans. “No offense.”

  “It’s not too bad. Don’t forget about the quilt museum,” I joke.

  But instead of laughing, Sutton nods her pointy chin over my shoulder. “Do you know that guy? He’s looking at you.”

  I turn to peer at t
he shiny Jeep station wagon that’s just pulled in. Kurt is opening the passenger door, while Aiden has already piled out of the backseat. Atticus and John are climbing out after him.

  I can’t help staring. Aiden didn’t say anything about hanging out with Kurt today. Why wouldn’t he have told me when we were cleaning out the basement this morning?

  Aiden’s gaze flicks between Sutton and me. I peer over the top of the faded picnic table at Sutton, trying to visualize how we must look to Aiden. Her volcano red hair is twisted into tiny little knots all over her head, and she’s wearing combat boots instead of flip-flops.

  I’m wearing a Captain America T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts.

  Even from here, I can see Aiden’s eyes widening.

  “Whoa.” Kurt steps out of the Jeep, brushing his hair back with the heel of his hand. He gives Sutton and me a casual nod.

  Everything Kurt does is casual.

  I told you he was cool.

  Atticus and John, on the other hand, are openly gawking at Sutton, nudging each other back and forth with their elbows as they stare.

  Kurt leans back in the Jeep to say something to his mom, then walks toward our table. Aiden, Atticus, and John follow.

  “Hey, man,” Kurt says, giving me a friendly nod. Or at least I think it’s friendly. “Good to see you.”

  I clear my throat. “Um,” I say. “Yes. Good to see you, too.”

  “Who’s this?” he asks, looking in Sutton’s direction.

  Sutton answers for herself. “This is Sutton.” Her shoulders are stiff as she raises her milk shake to take a drink. “Who are you?”

  Kurt gives her an easy grin, flicking his hair back again. “I’m Kurt. And that’s John, Atticus, and Aiden,” he says, pointing in their directions.

  “Oh.” Sutton’s shoulders relax just a little bit. “Ren’s friend, right?” she asks, looking at Aiden. Is it my imagination, or does he shoot a look in Kurt’s direction before he answers her with a nod?

  “Sutton’s new,” I say, mainly for Aiden’s benefit. “We’re neighbors. She just moved here.”

  “From where?” Atticus asks John in a lowered voice. “Transylvania?”

  Sutton looks at him, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  Atticus takes a half step back.

  “She’s from DC,” I say. “Washington, DC.”

  “Cool,” Kurt says. “I have a cousin who lives there.”

  “Are you guys ready?” Mrs. Richardson calls through the lowered passenger window. “The food’s here!”

  “Gotta go,” Kurt says. “Unless you guys want to come swimming with us?”

  For the first time, I realize the four of them are wearing swimming trunks instead of shorts. There’s a lot of neon involved.

  Aiden and I look at each other.

  I wait for him to second Kurt’s invitation.

  He stays silent.

  For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure what he’s thinking.

  “We’re waiting for someone,” Sutton tells Kurt. “But thanks.”

  “All right. Well, catch you later,” Kurt says. Behind his shoulder, I can see Atticus smirking at Sutton. From a safe distance, that is.

  Aiden gives me a little wave. “Talk to you later, dude.”

  “Talk to you later,” I echo.

  As the four of them head back to Kurt’s car, I push my milk shake away.

  For some reason, I’m not so hungry anymore.

  CHAPTER 16

  AIDEN DOESN’T ANSWER his phone.

  I try calling him at three o’clock.

  And then at four.

  And at five.

  It’s almost seven before he finally picks up.

  Seven.

  “Hey.”

  I almost drop the phone, I’m so surprised to actually hear his voice.

  Well, no. That’s an exaggeration. The phone remains firmly in my grasp. But I’m trying to make a point.

  “Hey.” I clear my throat. “You answered.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  I wait for the excuse. That he just got home. That he didn’t bring his cell with him to the pool. That he did, but it was dead.

  Not that I would have believed him. Just because I don’t have a cell phone doesn’t mean I don’t understand how they work. I’ve seen enough TV to know when someone is dodging a call.

  Only Aiden doesn’t make an excuse. “So what’s up?” he asks instead.

  Other than the fact I’ve been calling him all afternoon? “Not much.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  “I didn’t know you were hanging out with those guys today,” I blurt out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Kurt called after I got home. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be hanging out with your neighbor?” Aiden counters.

  “I didn’t know I was going to,” I say quickly. “Sutton called right after you left. I was going to tell you about her,” I add. “She has these pigeons, and I’ve been helping out with them. Some. In the mornings.”

  “So what? She’s some sort of goth FFA chick?”

  FFA stands for the Future Farmers of America. A bunch of kids from school are involved in it, mostly the ones whose parents farm for a living. They raise rabbits, or calves, or things like that, and show them at the county fair. It’s kind of a big thing around here.

  “She’s not goth,” I say automatically, even though I’m not technically sure that’s true. Now that I think about it, Sutton does wear a lot of black. But then again, so does Neil deGrasse Tyson, and he’s definitely not goth. An awesome scientist? Yes. Goth? No.

  I’m getting off track.

  “It’s not an FFA thing,” I explain. “She and her dad are doing it together. Like a hobby. It’s more popular than you’d think. Mike Tyson raises pigeons.”

  “The boxer? The one who bit that guy’s ear off?”

  “I think they reattached it,” I say. “Anyway, Sutton’s cool. You’ll like her.”

  “Yeah, okay. Listen, I should go. I’ve got to shower.”

  “Wait,” I say, before he can hang up on me. I nervously switch the phone to my other ear. “Is everything okay?” The words come out in a rush, all smushed together.

  “Yeah, of course,” Aiden replies. His words sound smushed, too. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just . . . It’s weird, seeing you with Kurt and those guys.”

  “I told you we’ve been hanging out,” Aiden says. “You knew we were. It’s not a big thing, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  Aiden’s right.

  I know he’s right.

  It’s not a big thing.

  “It’s just . . .” I can feel another blurt coming on. “You didn’t invite me to go swimming with you.”

  There’s another beat. “You were hanging out with Sutton,” Aiden says. “Besides, you hate swimming.”

  He has a point about the swimming. I do hate it.

  But is that really the reason he didn’t ask me?

  “So that’s it? Because I ask you to do things you don’t like all the time,” I point out. “I still think you should join Arduino team when school starts, by the way.”

  I can hear Aiden snorting on the other end of the line. It’s a reassuring sound, somehow.

  “Yeah, right. Look, everything’s cool, okay? You’ll see. You’re still coming to Kurt’s party, right?”

  Kurt’s party. I’d almost forgotten about it.

  “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

  “I’m always right,” Aiden says. “It’s my curse. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  I hang up the phone, relieved. I feel like a giant weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Well, a moderate-size weight, at least; my shoulders aren’t really built to withstand too much weight.

  Checking my clock, I head downstairs and pull on my sneakers. “I’m just heading over to Sutton’s,” I call through to the living room, w
here Mom and Dad are watching a cooking show. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Eight thirty at the latest,” Mom calls from the couch.

  I nod, even though she can’t see me, and head across the field. Sutton is waiting impatiently for me on her front steps, a stack of papers on her lap.

  “Where have you been?” she asks, standing up.

  “Sorry. Aiden called,” I say, following her inside. Her house smells oniony, but in a good way. “Soup?” I ask, sniffing the air.

  “Shepherd’s pie. You want some?”

  I wish I hadn’t eaten that entire box of Cheez-Its in my room while I waited for Aiden to call me back. “I’m good,” I tell Sutton, who leads the way into the living room.

  “Okay,” she says in a businesslike voice, spreading the papers across the coffee table. “So the Regional Director already knows that we’re flying, but we need to submit the official paperwork, just to make it, you know . . .”

  “Official?”

  She gives me a quick grin. “Right. Mom gave me money for the entrance fee, and Dad already signed at the hospital, so we just need to fill in the rest of the stuff.”

  I glance down at the paper. The name “Luke Davies” is printed shakily at the bottom, next to a scrawled signature. Sutton catches me looking.

  “He’d just had another dose of medicine,” she says quickly. “That’s not how his handwriting usually looks.”

  “Oh. I mean, yeah. Of course.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Anyway,” Sutton says, clearing her throat. “I’m just going to list all of the kit’s band numbers, so we don’t actually have to decide who we’re flying now.”

  I nod. The band numbers are written on these little aluminum bracelet-type thingies that the pigeons wear around one of their legs. You can personalize your bands with different colors, or your name, or something, but ours are plain. Most people band their birds when they’re about a week old, so Sutton’s kit had already had it done by the time she got them.

  Frankly, I’m a little bit glad we didn’t have to band the kit ourselves; I’m not entirely comfortable around pigeon feet yet.

  Sutton works in silence for a few minutes, listing numbers down on the sheet. I recognize NBRC925-40 as Crow’s number, but the rest are a mystery to me.