Roll

  Wrenching the door open, I stumble into the hall.

  Aiden doesn’t follow me.

  CHAPTER 22

  I CAN’T EVEN look at Aiden the next morning, let alone talk to him. The feeling is apparently mutual, which leads to a very quiet breakfast.

  Honey Nut Cheerios have never sounded so loud.

  Luckily, Mom has an early surgery. Aiden pretends he isn’t feeling well to get out of helping with the basement, and is out the door with Mom before seven o’clock.

  I’m tired.

  It turns out that knowing your best friend betrayed you makes it kind of hard to sleep. Also, the couch is lumpy. But mainly it was the betrayal thing keeping me awake.

  I’m just considering going back to bed for a few minutes when a faint crashing noise floats through the open kitchen windows.

  I sit bolt upright, my tiredness forgotten.

  Cymbals.

  Sutton’s using the cymbals.

  But that can only mean . . .

  I’m halfway out the door before I even finish the thought. I race across the field, the wet dirt pulling me down, sucking at my sneakers and making me trip.

  The clanging of the cymbals grows louder as I near the coop. I can hear Sutton shouting in between crashes. “Go away! Go away!”

  And then, suddenly, there’s silence.

  Sutton’s back is to me as I burst through the tree line. The cymbals hang limply from her hands as she stares up at the pigeons.

  She isn’t yelling anymore.

  “Is everything okay?” I lean forward, breathing heavily. It’s a good thing I didn’t finish my cereal, or I might be puking right now. “Was it a hawk?”

  Sutton jumps at the sound of my voice. As she turns to face me, I can see tears on her cheeks. I straighten up. I’m too late.

  “It got Squirrel.” Her voice is even scratchier than usual. Like Velcro when it gets tangled and sticks to itself in a knot.

  “What?” It takes a second for me to process what Sutton is saying. “What do you mean, it got him?”

  I look up at the kit, willing Sutton to be wrong. The hawk is nowhere to be seen, but the birds still seem scared, flying back and forth together in a tight clump.

  I search for the bright spots of red that mark the undersides of Squirrel’s wings.

  We just re-daubed them, the other morning.

  Squirrel should be easy to see.

  But he’s nowhere.

  Sutton angrily wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. “Where were you?” she demands.

  My eyes feel all hot, and weird. Like they suddenly don’t fit in my eye sockets anymore. “Aiden,” I say. My voice sounds weird, too. “Remember? He stayed over last night.”

  Sutton drops the cymbals to the ground.

  I swallow.

  I can’t believe Squirrel’s gone.

  “This is all my fault. I should have been here. I could have helped. I could have scared it off.” The words come faster and faster. “I should have bought an air horn. I read about them, about people using them to scare hawks away, and I was going to get one, and I forgot. I should have remembered. I should have . . .”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t,” Sutton says. She’s purposefully not looking at me.

  Her words feel like a punch in the stomach.

  “I . . .” My throat feels hot and thick, and my voice doesn’t come out right. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Sutton shrugs. “Forget about it. I guess your real friends are more important.”

  “That’s not fair,” I protest. “I didn’t know Squirrel was going to—that he was going to be—”

  “Killed?”

  I can feel myself flinching at the word. I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “Well, he was,” Sutton says, turning away. She looks determinedly up at the kit, which is circling lower above the coop. “Anyway, they’re coming in.”

  I automatically purse my lips, trying to whistle, but nothing comes out.

  It doesn’t matter. The kit doesn’t need me; one by one they flutter down, their feet scraping against the landing board as they push their way back into the coop.

  Sutton clears her throat. “I forgot the log inside. We need to mark . . .” She trails off, still not looking at me. “I’ll be right back.”

  As Sutton heads toward her house, I pull the landing board free, shutting the plywood door and making sure it latches.

  Stepping inside the coop, I tap on the light. The familiar scent of dust, and poop, and something else, that alive smell, washes over me.

  Dumping feed into the wide, shallow pan, I open the inner door and set it on the floor. The kit goes crazy for it, their necks snapping up and down as they eat. The sound of their beaks striking against the metal pan is deafening.

  But somehow it isn’t quite loud enough.

  I check, but Sutton has already filled the water troughs. She must have done it before the hawk attack.

  Stepping back into the outer room, I lean my head against the partition. It presses against my forehead as I look closer, searching for Crow in the crowd. I can feel the wire cutting into my skin, but I don’t move.

  “Crow,” I whisper. “Are you in there?”

  It’s not like I’m expecting him to answer, what with him being a pigeon.

  Still, it is kind of a strange coincidence he chooses that exact moment to raise his head from the watering trough. His tiny, perfectly round eyes focus right on me, like he heard me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Crow tilts his head to the side, staring at me.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. About Squirrel. I should have been here.”

  Crow flaps his wings a few times, turning away from the water dish. His head swivels, so he’s looking at me even though he’s walking in the opposite direction.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, trying to make myself believe it. “You’ll see. You’ll make a new friend. Right?” I can hear myself pleading a little. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  Even to my ears, the words fall flat.

  As I look at Crow, standing apart from the other birds, a dull sort of pain settles in my stomach.

  I’m lying.

  It’s not going to be okay.

  It’s just not.

  Stepping out of the coop, I carefully fasten the door behind me. Sutton isn’t back yet, but I don’t wait for her.

  Turning toward home, I walk away.

  CHAPTER 23

  I DON’T GO over to Sutton’s the next morning.

  I tell Mom I’m not feeling well, and she doesn’t push me on it. She even offers to stay home from work, which I immediately veto.

  If Mom stays home, she’ll be nice to me. She’ll fix up a bed on the couch, and watch terrible daytime TV with me, and make chocolate pudding from a box.

  I don’t deserve chocolate pudding from a box.

  I don’t deserve any pudding, full stop.

  It’s my fault Squirrel is gone. Sutton probably hates me, and I can’t blame her. I hate myself, right now.

  I keep playing it over and over in my head. If only I’d remembered to bring over the air horn. If only I could have gotten there faster. I could have helped. Maybe with the two of us, we’d have been loud enough to scare the hawk away.

  I stare up at the ceiling from my bed.

  Maybe we could have—

  The doorbell rings and I jump a little, coming back to reality.

  “Ren?” Sutton’s voice floats through the open window. I sit up in confusion. “I know you’re in there,” Sutton calls. For a second, I’m tempted to pretend I don’t hear her. “Come on, open up!”

  I push out of bed and walk very slowly down the stairs, trying to brace myself. Whatever Sutton’s about to say, I deserve it.

  Besides, it’s not like she can make me feel worse than I already do.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull open the front door.

  On the other side of the screen door, Sutton h
olds up a package of Oreos.

  “I brought cookies.”

  I stare at them. “You brought cookies?” I repeat. “But . . . aren’t you mad at me? It’s all my fault,” I say, the words falling fast. “If I had been there, I could have helped. I could have—”

  “Ren.” Sutton cuts me off. “Just listen, okay? I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to blame you, or whatever. It’s not your fault. It just . . . it happens.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not okay. Squirrel’s gone. It’s my fault, and now Crow is going to be all by himself.”

  “He’s not going to be all by himself. He’s got the entire kit.”

  “It’s not the same,” I insist. My voice breaks a little on the last word, making me sound about seven years old. I don’t even care. “It won’t be the same.”

  On the other side of the door, I ball up my fists as tight as I can, squeezing until my knuckles ache.

  It doesn’t help.

  “Can I come in?” Sutton asks. “It’s kind of weird, just standing here.”

  I let out my breath in a big whoosh. “Yeah. Sorry.” Sutton opens the door, both of us wincing a little at the screech. I lead the way into the living room, and we sit down on the couch. Sutton pushes the box of Oreos in my direction.

  I’m not really hungry, but it feels like a peace offering, so I rip open the package and take one.

  “I should have been there,” I say again, trying to twist open the cookie. My fingers are clumsy, and I smash part of it, the crumbs falling all over my lap. “If it hadn’t been for Aiden, I would have been.”

  “It’s not Aiden’s fault, either,” Sutton says. “I shouldn’t have said that yesterday. I was just . . . I don’t know . . . jealous, I guess. But, I mean, I get that you have other friends. It’s cool.”

  “Had other friends,” I tell her. “We had a fight.”

  “So? My friends and I fight all the time,” Sutton says. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “This is different. He lied to me. He’s been lying to me.” Just thinking about it makes me feel nauseated. I set my broken Oreo on the edge of the coffee table, uneaten.

  Sutton shrugs. “Everyone lies. At least sometimes.”

  “Not me.” I even told Aiden the truth about that time I accidentally ripped a tiny corner of his Wolverine and the X-Men #1.

  “Really?” she asks. “Because your dad showed me your running chart thingy the other night, when I ran into him in the kitchen.”

  Oh.

  “Sorry. It just kind of . . . happened. And a lot of the chart is real,” I point out. “I was running. Just, you know . . . not lately.”

  I look down at my running shorts, which I put on this morning out of habit. There’s a mustard stain near the hem. It’s been there for weeks now.

  For weeks.

  As I stare down at the spot, I realize Sutton is right. I have been lying. But not just to Dad; I’ve been lying to myself, too.

  “I don’t think I want to go out for cross-country.” The words feel heavy, leaving my mouth. Like once they’re gone, I’m somehow lighter.

  Sutton looks like she’s trying not to roll her eyes. “Really? You think?”

  “It’s just . . . I told everyone I was going to do it, you know? This was supposed to be my chance to prove I was good enough. But I’m not.”

  “Good enough at what?” Sutton demands. “Running in a straight line without falling down? No offense, but it’s not like it’s some big accomplishment, or anything.”

  She has a point. Still. “My dad’s going to be disappointed.” He’ll try to hide it, I know. But he won’t be able to help the look in his eyes when he realizes I’m not like him, after all. That I’m not an athlete. That I’m just a geek.

  The King of the Geeks.

  “He’ll get over it,” Sutton says authoritatively. “Trust me. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

  I think about Aiden.

  About how he’s embarrassed by me. About how he thinks I won’t fit in with his new friends. About how I don’t even know him anymore.

  Sutton’s right. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t.

  “Hey, Sutton?” She looks up at me.

  “Yeah?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Want to go to a party this Friday?”

  CHAPTER 24

  MOM PRACTICALLY SNORTS coffee out of her nose when I tell her I want to go clothes shopping.

  Lowering her cup, she stares at me like I’m speaking Portuguese, or I’ve suddenly sprouted a third eyeball.

  “You want to go where?”

  “Clothes shopping. Can you take me today? After work?”

  “Who’s going shopping?” Dad asks, wandering into the kitchen.

  “Ren wants to go,” Mom tells him. “For clothes.”

  “Clothes?” Dad pretends to stagger backward in shock. “My heart,” he groans, clutching at his chest. “I’m too old for shocks like these.”

  I roll my eyes. I can see why Sutton does it so much; it’s satisfying.

  “So can you take me?” I ask Mom.

  “Sure,” she says. Her phone begins to buzz, and she picks it up from the table. “We can go shopping. I’ll even take off a little bit early, okay?”

  “Thanks. Oh, and maybe we can get my hair cut, too.”

  She gapes at me a little, then brushes past Dad to go take the phone call. He grabs a banana from the counter. It looks small in his hands. “So how was your run, kiddo?”

  My first instinct is to shrug. To tell him it was fine, and let it drop.

  But instead, I force myself to meet his eyes.

  I’m done lying.

  “Um, is it okay if we talk for a second?”

  “Sure.” He sets the banana back down, looking concerned. “What’s up?”

  You can do this, Ren. Just rip off the Band-Aid.

  “I hate running and I don’t want to join the cross-country team.”

  Dad blinks, taken aback. “You hate running?”

  Okay. I may have ripped that one off a little bit too quickly.

  “I mean . . . I think maybe . . . I just think that running isn’t really my . . . you know . . . thing,” I finish weakly.

  A line appears on Dad’s forehead. “So what have we been doing all summer then? Why have I been helping you train?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time, or anything. I thought I’d, you know . . . get better at it. But I didn’t.”

  “The only way you get better at running is by running,” Dad says. “You put in the work, and you get the results. That’s what I did. That’s what my cross-country kids did.” He points at my running chart, hanging on the fridge. “It’s not too late to get your totals up before school starts.”

  I glance over at the chart. “Right. About that.”

  Dad looks at me, waiting for me to go on.

  I suck in a deep breath. “I haven’t actually been running lately. I’m not just hanging out with Sutton in the afternoon. I’ve been there in the morning, too, helping her with her pigeons.”

  His shoulders pull back, a little.

  “You’ve been lying to me?”

  It feels just as terrible as I thought it would. I can feel my face growing hot. “Not lying, exactly,” I say hastily. “I was going to make it up. I promise. But then Sutton needed my help, and I don’t know. I just . . . didn’t.”

  Dad doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s not like there’s really a point to me going out for the team,” I babble, trying to fill the silence that’s threatening to swallow the kitchen whole. “It doesn’t matter how much work I put in. I’m never going to be as good as you were. I mean, look at you, and look at me.”

  “You just haven’t hit your growth spurt yet,” Dad says. He’s looking at me, but not quite looking at me, somehow.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, trying to make him understa
nd. “I could be seven feet tall, and it wouldn’t matter. I’m never going to win State, or be the team captain, or have a box full of trophies in the basement. I’m just not. I’m not you, okay?”

  “You’re right.”

  I feel a tiny rush of hope. Maybe he understands, after all.

  “You’re not me,” Dad continues. “In fact, right now it feels like I don’t even know who you are. The Ren I know doesn’t lie to his parents.”

  And, picking up his banana, he walks out of the kitchen.

  I’m still staring at the door with hot, scratchy eyes when Mom bustles back in. “So, shopping today?” she asks, smiling at me as she reaches for the remains of her toast.

  “Yeah,” I say dully. “Sounds great.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “WHOA.”

  I can see Sutton’s eyes widen as she slides into the car next to me. It’s Friday night, and Mom is about to drop us off at Kurt’s party.

  Together.

  “You look . . .” She gives a little shake of her head, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

  I look down at myself. I don’t look that different, do I?

  Sure, I got a haircut. It still sticks up, only this time it’s on purpose, and I’m using this weird “styling product” to hold it in place. And I’m wearing a new shirt, too. A button-down. It’s covered with tiny lobsters that are eating French fries. Why lobsters would eat French fries, I have no idea, since generally their diet consists mainly of fresh seafood. Sometimes they even eat other lobsters, which technically makes them cannibals.

  Still, the woman at the store said it was cool, so who am I to argue?

  My swim trunks are baggy and knee-length, and are covered with neon stripes. According to the same sales clerk, they’re supposed to look like they’re going to fall off any second. “Riding low,” she called it. I double-knotted the string at the waist when I was putting them on, just to be safe.

  I don’t have any socks on inside my slip-on shoes, and my feet are all sweaty.

  I’m sweaty everywhere, actually, even though Mom is blasting the air-conditioning.

  “Nice shorts,” Sutton says. “Very . . . bright.” She’s wearing cutoffs and a black tank top. I can see the straps of her swimsuit peeking out beneath.