a different reason for why the bus was a little late. Traffic. A deer in the road. Stuck behind a tractor.
The first day I was late, she panicked. She called the school. They were already on the radio with the bus driver before I got home, and he assured them he had dropped me off in one piece. After my escape to Cary Fork my first day back at school, Phyllis isnât taking any chances.But she also doesnât want to meet me at the bus stop, because I told her the other kids will tease me if they see her. A seventh grader is too old to be walked home by a grown-up. The kids at school already think Iâm weird, with my visits to Mr. Powell and my history of violence. Getting picked up at the bus stop like I canât find my own way home would be the last straw.
The GUI-tar Iâve picked out for Phyllis looks a lot like her old one, but itâs shinier. Iâve looked at the price tag several times, willing the numbers to get smaller. Iâve also tried staring squint-eyed at my cousin, willing the money he pays me to get bigger.
âYou having eye trouble?â he asks.
Itâs going to be a while before Phyllis has a GUI-tar.
Iâm a little worried, anyway, that when she gets it, she wonât want to play it anymore. At least not when Iâm around. But I can only fix one problem at a time.
7
Spring comes to Caboose in patches. First, there are three or four days at a time of warm weather, followed by snowstorms that keep my pockets fat from all the walkways Iâm shoveling for Hubert. The April weather is all mixed up. There are flower petals scattered across snow while thunder rumbles over the mountains, like the weather just canât make up its mind what season to be. For the most part, Iâm settling in at Phyllisâs, but my moods are a lot like the weather. Some days Iâm springtime warm and hopeful, lying on the porch with the sun on my face. Other days, grief for Michael blows through me like a cold wind, thundering for me to go, to get out, to
move
.
The first summer-warm day comes on a Thursday in April, too early to be convincing, but welcome anyway. Itâs over eighty and so nice that they ought to let us skipschool to enjoy it, but no such luck. Iâm looking forward to a quick stop at the pawnshop and a long afternoon on the porch, but on the school bus, I start hearing whispers about why thereâs extra traffic in and out of Caboose. Kids are on their phones and looking online, passing stories back and forth. Nobody talks to me, but I donât have to be popular to pick up on the word
accident
. Despite the weather, I rub my hands up and down my arms to chase away the chill.
I skip the pawnshop, and by the time Iâve made it a quarter mile from the bus stop, Iâm jogging. Hubertâs home early, just pulling in as I make it to the driveway. I stand on the porch and watch my cousin go in. He slams his truck door and roars a curse when the seat belt jams in the door. On his way up the steps, he kicks the porch railing and knocks loose one of the sturdy nails we just put in. I canât help thinking heâs never quite looked so kin to me as he does right now.
He disappears inside without so much as a glance my way. I watch his screen door slam shut with a bounce before I head into Phyllisâs house. Sheâs standing in front of the TV, in the middle of the living room, even though sheâs not two paces from a chair.
âOh,â she says when she sees me. âItâs already time for you?â Her smile doesnât reach her eyes, which stray back to the TV after only a second.
The man on TV is talking about an accident at theDogwood mine. He talks about how many things we donât know yet: how many miners, and whether theyâre hurt or worse than that. He doesnât seem to know much of anything for sure. His cameraman angles toward flashing lights all clustered on the gravel road that leads out to
The first day I was late, she panicked. She called the school. They were already on the radio with the bus driver before I got home, and he assured them he had dropped me off in one piece. After my escape to Cary Fork my first day back at school, Phyllis isnât taking any chances.But she also doesnât want to meet me at the bus stop, because I told her the other kids will tease me if they see her. A seventh grader is too old to be walked home by a grown-up. The kids at school already think Iâm weird, with my visits to Mr. Powell and my history of violence. Getting picked up at the bus stop like I canât find my own way home would be the last straw.
The GUI-tar Iâve picked out for Phyllis looks a lot like her old one, but itâs shinier. Iâve looked at the price tag several times, willing the numbers to get smaller. Iâve also tried staring squint-eyed at my cousin, willing the money he pays me to get bigger.
âYou having eye trouble?â he asks.
Itâs going to be a while before Phyllis has a GUI-tar.
Iâm a little worried, anyway, that when she gets it, she wonât want to play it anymore. At least not when Iâm around. But I can only fix one problem at a time.
7
Spring comes to Caboose in patches. First, there are three or four days at a time of warm weather, followed by snowstorms that keep my pockets fat from all the walkways Iâm shoveling for Hubert. The April weather is all mixed up. There are flower petals scattered across snow while thunder rumbles over the mountains, like the weather just canât make up its mind what season to be. For the most part, Iâm settling in at Phyllisâs, but my moods are a lot like the weather. Some days Iâm springtime warm and hopeful, lying on the porch with the sun on my face. Other days, grief for Michael blows through me like a cold wind, thundering for me to go, to get out, to
move
.
The first summer-warm day comes on a Thursday in April, too early to be convincing, but welcome anyway. Itâs over eighty and so nice that they ought to let us skipschool to enjoy it, but no such luck. Iâm looking forward to a quick stop at the pawnshop and a long afternoon on the porch, but on the school bus, I start hearing whispers about why thereâs extra traffic in and out of Caboose. Kids are on their phones and looking online, passing stories back and forth. Nobody talks to me, but I donât have to be popular to pick up on the word
accident
. Despite the weather, I rub my hands up and down my arms to chase away the chill.
I skip the pawnshop, and by the time Iâve made it a quarter mile from the bus stop, Iâm jogging. Hubertâs home early, just pulling in as I make it to the driveway. I stand on the porch and watch my cousin go in. He slams his truck door and roars a curse when the seat belt jams in the door. On his way up the steps, he kicks the porch railing and knocks loose one of the sturdy nails we just put in. I canât help thinking heâs never quite looked so kin to me as he does right now.
He disappears inside without so much as a glance my way. I watch his screen door slam shut with a bounce before I head into Phyllisâs house. Sheâs standing in front of the TV, in the middle of the living room, even though sheâs not two paces from a chair.
âOh,â she says when she sees me. âItâs already time for you?â Her smile doesnât reach her eyes, which stray back to the TV after only a second.
The man on TV is talking about an accident at theDogwood mine. He talks about how many things we donât know yet: how many miners, and whether theyâre hurt or worse than that. He doesnât seem to know much of anything for sure. His cameraman angles toward flashing lights all clustered on the gravel road that leads out to
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