He puts a finger to his lips and softly shuts the door behind us. To avoid the large windows in the front of the house, we stay up against the wall and creep around the corner. Once we make it far enough down the sidewalk, we double over laughing.
“That was close,” I say through my laughter.
“Too close,” Brady agrees. He straightens, his laughter fading, and his eyes turn serious.
“She doesn’t understand,” he says, his hand reaching for mine. “She doesn’t know how perfect you are.”
The adoration in his eyes makes my stomach feel weird. “You know how you can make this up to me?” I ask, hoping the joke forming in my head will cover some of my unease.
“How?”
“Bake me a cake and tell me I’m pretty.” A smile twists my mouth. I’m positive Brady doesn’t even know what a spatula is, let alone how to read the recipe on the back of a box of cake mix.
Brady’s eyes bulge and he shakes his head back and forth rapidly.
I smile at his refusal and start back down the road. We walk and talk about Brady’s new school until we reach the park. Finn’s sitting on a bench waiting for us.
Brady tightens his hold on my hand, and it isn’t until he does this that I realize we’re still holding hands at all. Finn waves, and I drop Brady’s hand, a feeling of guilt I can’t explain blooming in my core.
One of their many competitions isme.
* * *
Brady and Finnhave been throwing the football for what feels like forever but is probably only twenty minutes. I’ve spread out my homework on the metal table and am using medium-sized rocks to keep my papers from blowing away. The wind has picked up since we arrived, and it’s making my hair blow around my face. Honestly, I don’t mind being smacked in the face with my hair, because it’slong, and there is very little I wouldn’t do to keep it that way. Six years ago I promised my mother I could do my own hair every day, and that’s a promise I’ve yet to break. The grow-out period was awkward, and I had to get creative with how to make it look somewhat acceptable. If I know anything, it’s this: I’ll never have short hair again.
Brady and Finn continue throwing the football, and I finish my math and start on outlining my English essay.
“Lennon, would you mind?”
I look up at Finn, who’s pointing at something behind me and to the right. Twisting, I see the football lying beside a brittle-looking bush and some rocks.
“Why is that so far from your target?” I yell, standing up and walking out from behind the table.
Brady rolls his eyes. “He was trying to get your attention.”
I glare at Finn, and he laughs. “Nobody should be that into their homework. I said your name twice.”
I cross my arms. “Maybe if you were a little more into your homework, you’d have better grades.”
“Can you get the ball, please?” Finn gives me puppy dog eyes.
My feet drag as I go to the ball, creating little rocky sandstorms around my sneakers. I reach down, grab the ball, and see a flash of light from under a small pile of rocks.
Dropping the football, I bend over and use two hands to turn over the rock on the top of the pile. The shiny thing is a large piece of mylar, probably from a popped balloon.
“What are you doing?” Brady yells.
Grabbing the rock, I glance over my shoulder at them and shout, “Searching for buried treasure, but—”
Hot pain sears my hand, and I scream. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and it won’t stop. Dropping the rock, I stand and cradle my hurt hand in my other.
Footsteps thump behind me. Staring down at my hand, I look at the fleshy part of the outside of my palm, expecting to see a deep gash. The wound that should be there is missing, the skin showing only a small patch of red to signify something occurred at all.
“Lennon, what happened?” Brady makes it to me first, but Finn is on his heels.
“I don't know,” I gasp, trying to understand how there could be such fire blazing in my palm, and so little to show for it. “It feels like my hand is on a hot stove.”
“Fuck,” Finn mutters.
