wide, and I can see the tops of her gums.
At the mention of my name, Ethanâs face seems to register who I am. He sits back down at his Ludwig really slowly, and I can feel his eyes first on me and then on his mom and then on me again. But heâs gripping his drumsticks so tight his knuckles are white, and suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet for even being here.
âSoâ¦,â Mrs. Jorgenson says, still bright as the Texas sun, âhow is your family? How is Dylan doing?â Her face does this weird cross of maniacally upbeat and super concerned, and Iâm surprised her eyes donât cross.
âHeâs ⦠okay,â I say. âWeâre just ⦠getting back to normal.â
âOf course,â Mrs. Jorgenson says, nodding vigorously. âIt takes time. Lots of time. Thatâs what our therapists have been saying. Time, time, time.â She smiles again. Too big. Sheâs nervous Iâm here. She doesnât want to be rude, but Iâm making her anxious. With every word she scoots microscopically closer toward Ethan. I try to cut the tension.
âIs that a real Ludwig?â I ask Ethan even though I know it is.
Ethan frowns a little, and his eyes go all wide. He peeks down at his drums like he needs to check.
âUh ⦠yeah?â
âWow,â I say. âItâs totally gorgeous.â
Mrs. Jorgenson is watching us. Watching me. Deciding what to do.
âThanks,â Ethan says. âI just got it. For my birthday.â
âHey, happy birthday,â I say.
âThanks,â Ethan offers again. He glances at his mother.
Silence.
âI donât drum myself,â I say, and now I think I sound like the nervous one, just talking spastically, filling the air up with my words. âI play guitar,â I tell him. âItâs this cheap little Fender Squier. I mean, itâs not fancy like this Ludwig or anything. But itâs still kind of cool, I guess.â
Ethan is staring at me. When I mention my guitar, he breaks into this goofy, lopsided grin for the briefest of seconds. Itâs the same grin that stared at me from the MISSING posters. Heâs got a touch of stubble around it now, but itâs the same grin. The same goofiness.
âWell,â Mrs. Jorgenson says. âCan I ⦠would youâ¦â She crosses her arms. She uncrosses them. âWould you two like some lemonade?â
âOh,â I answer, âI ⦠wellâ¦,â but Ethan gives her a half nod and I hear myself mumbling, âSure, that would be nice.â
As Mrs. Jorgenson crosses the backyard toward the door, she looks at us over her shoulder three times.
âSo,â I say, leaning back, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my shorts. âThis is a pretty cool gift.â
âYeah,â Ethan says, rubbing his thumb over a drumstick. Now that Mrs. Jorgenson isnât here, I should try to start in on my plan. But how? Just wander in here and ask this trauma victim why my little brother keeps repeating the words damn, damn piece of cake all the time? And why he canât even go outside our house anymore?
Itâs not like Ethan and I were friends before he was taken. He was a year behind me in school. You donât live in a town like Dove Lake and not coexist constantly, like youâre all a bunch of marbles in the same pinball game, bouncing off of and into one another all day long, most of you looking for a way out. But we donât really know each other.
I normally hate it when people donât just say what theyâre really thinking, but just because weâve lived here together for most of our childhoods doesnât mean I can come right out and just ask him about what happened. No, I need to âengageâ with him. At Jackson Family Farm, Enrique is always telling me to engage with customers. Build rapport. At the farm I do it so maybe I can get
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