makes a thinking face, closing one eye and puckering his mouth. Then he motions with his head. “Come on.”
I take the passenger seat and lay the board across my lap. The golf cart starts with a jolt. “Recent?” he asks, steering the cart and peering out over the lawns.
“2008.”
We pull up to a building the size of a large toolshed. He steps inside and returns with a notebook. Flips through the pages, muttering my last name under his breath. “Parker and Rebecca?”
My stomach caves.
“Bit of a walk. I’ll take you.”
He climbs back into the golf cart and we wind around another turn, past a wall of names and a quote carved into the granite. O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?
“Family?”
“My friend’s parents,” I lie. He stops the cart under a huge tree, near a stone bench. “About twenty paces that way.” He points. “Take your time.”
“Thanks.”
The cart’s wheels crunch the gravel as he drives away. Then I’m standing there by myself and I can’t move.
I look up into the sky. Clouds breeze by. Leaves wave in the sunlight. It’s a perfect day. A perfect, horrible, awful, terrible day. Why won’t the ground open up and swallow me now?
“You come all this way for nothing?” My voice sounds small, not brave. I force one leg to move. Then the other. The sun glints off a gazing ball, and wind chimes ring nearby. I read the names out loud as I go.
“Rollins. Perkins. Dominguez.”
Then I see them and my legs turn to liquid. I crouch down to keep from falling to my knees.
Their grave is simple. No flowers or pinwheels. Just a single bronze plaque edged by green grass, their names side by side with an infinity symbol between. I stare at it a long, long time. Like I’m waiting for the
Twilight Zone
music to start, or Germ to step out from behind a tree and tell me this is some kind of joke.
But he doesn’t. And it’s not.
Danny’s not around when I get home from school. And he’s not around for dinner either, which annoys Dad. I keep checking my phone, thinking maybe he’s lost and I missed his call.
But no.
I sit on the tree stump in the strip of yard between Mom’s and Dad’s. Bugs circle under the streetlight, growing bright and then dim as they move into and away from the bulb. Every now and again one flies too close and smashes into the plastic or the pole. From down here, it’s just a tapping sound. Up there, though, it must be cataclysmic. Movement beyond the bugs catches my eye. I peer through the light to Warren’s rooftop across the street, where a figure sits alone.
It’s got to be after seven. Where is Missy?
Despite my better judgment, I decide to find out.
He doesn’t hear me ascend the ladder, but when I make the awkward transition to the roof, he turns around.
“Oh,” he says, “it’s you.” Disappointed.
He’s wearing the special-task-forces night-vision goggles he got for his thirteenth birthday, and a leather fighter-pilot jacket, despite the fact that it’s 80° out. Also, his hair is combed.
He must really like her.
I’m not supposed to know about the note, so I need to proceed with caution. On a wooden tray nestled between the telescopes are Oreos, strawberries,
Star Wars
special-edition mugs and a bottle of white grape juice. “That’s quite a spread for a solo rooftop spectacle.”
“Clearly I was expecting someone.” He sounds miserable, and looks it, too, sitting with his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his feet dangling off the edge of the roof.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
I scrape the toe of my shoe along the sandpaper shingles. “Do you want me to leave?”
He shrugs, but as I turn to go back to the ladder, he says, “You can stay if you want.”
Walking along the rooftop can be tricky, especially when it’s congested with all of Warren’s observation equipment. Warren can walk the roof with the agility of a mountain goat, but me, I’m not so goat-footed.
“What’s the show tonight?” I
I take the passenger seat and lay the board across my lap. The golf cart starts with a jolt. “Recent?” he asks, steering the cart and peering out over the lawns.
“2008.”
We pull up to a building the size of a large toolshed. He steps inside and returns with a notebook. Flips through the pages, muttering my last name under his breath. “Parker and Rebecca?”
My stomach caves.
“Bit of a walk. I’ll take you.”
He climbs back into the golf cart and we wind around another turn, past a wall of names and a quote carved into the granite. O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?
“Family?”
“My friend’s parents,” I lie. He stops the cart under a huge tree, near a stone bench. “About twenty paces that way.” He points. “Take your time.”
“Thanks.”
The cart’s wheels crunch the gravel as he drives away. Then I’m standing there by myself and I can’t move.
I look up into the sky. Clouds breeze by. Leaves wave in the sunlight. It’s a perfect day. A perfect, horrible, awful, terrible day. Why won’t the ground open up and swallow me now?
“You come all this way for nothing?” My voice sounds small, not brave. I force one leg to move. Then the other. The sun glints off a gazing ball, and wind chimes ring nearby. I read the names out loud as I go.
“Rollins. Perkins. Dominguez.”
Then I see them and my legs turn to liquid. I crouch down to keep from falling to my knees.
Their grave is simple. No flowers or pinwheels. Just a single bronze plaque edged by green grass, their names side by side with an infinity symbol between. I stare at it a long, long time. Like I’m waiting for the
Twilight Zone
music to start, or Germ to step out from behind a tree and tell me this is some kind of joke.
But he doesn’t. And it’s not.
Danny’s not around when I get home from school. And he’s not around for dinner either, which annoys Dad. I keep checking my phone, thinking maybe he’s lost and I missed his call.
But no.
I sit on the tree stump in the strip of yard between Mom’s and Dad’s. Bugs circle under the streetlight, growing bright and then dim as they move into and away from the bulb. Every now and again one flies too close and smashes into the plastic or the pole. From down here, it’s just a tapping sound. Up there, though, it must be cataclysmic. Movement beyond the bugs catches my eye. I peer through the light to Warren’s rooftop across the street, where a figure sits alone.
It’s got to be after seven. Where is Missy?
Despite my better judgment, I decide to find out.
He doesn’t hear me ascend the ladder, but when I make the awkward transition to the roof, he turns around.
“Oh,” he says, “it’s you.” Disappointed.
He’s wearing the special-task-forces night-vision goggles he got for his thirteenth birthday, and a leather fighter-pilot jacket, despite the fact that it’s 80° out. Also, his hair is combed.
He must really like her.
I’m not supposed to know about the note, so I need to proceed with caution. On a wooden tray nestled between the telescopes are Oreos, strawberries,
Star Wars
special-edition mugs and a bottle of white grape juice. “That’s quite a spread for a solo rooftop spectacle.”
“Clearly I was expecting someone.” He sounds miserable, and looks it, too, sitting with his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his feet dangling off the edge of the roof.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
I scrape the toe of my shoe along the sandpaper shingles. “Do you want me to leave?”
He shrugs, but as I turn to go back to the ladder, he says, “You can stay if you want.”
Walking along the rooftop can be tricky, especially when it’s congested with all of Warren’s observation equipment. Warren can walk the roof with the agility of a mountain goat, but me, I’m not so goat-footed.
“What’s the show tonight?” I
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