The letter lay on Ray’s kitchen table. Lucky for me—if you can call it that—Prater had ripped the letter into strips. I’d been able to tape them back together like a puzzle.
“What’s his problem?” I asked when Mrs. Miller left the kitchen. I ironed the letter flat with my hand. Mrs. Miller had this huge cutting board and rows of cookies lay cooling on it. The whole kitchen filled with the warm scent of peanut butter and sugar.
Ray stood and glanced through the window. Prater was still out there, starting on a new piece of leather. I’d worried about leaving Jack anywhere near him, but Ray insisted Prater wouldn’t do anything to Jack.
Ray sat, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and looked down.
“What?”
“Well …” He closed his mouth again.
He wanted to tell me and he didn’t want to tell me, but I definitely wanted to know.
“Come on, I won’t say anything.”
When someone’s about to spill, all their fidgeting stops. They kind of lean toward you, and they level their eyes with yours, making a bridge of trust. That’s what Ray did now.
“Remember when CeeCee said Alan is scared of dogs?”
“Yeah …” I fiddled with the bottle cap from the pop Ray gave me, spinning it across the table and catching it. Never look eager when you’re waiting to hear a secret; it makes the other person anxious, like maybe they should just keep quiet.
He stared straight at me. “You can’t tell him I told you this.”
Mrs. Miller rounded the corner. Man, she walked quietly.
Ray shook his head. Be quiet.
Mrs. Miller had fixed a bandanna around her hair and was carrying a dusting rag, which she set on the counter. She was probably around the same age my mom would’ve been. I wondered if they might have become friends.
“What’re you boys doing in already?” she asked as she loaded the percolator with water and coffee. She didn’t seem to need an answer. Looking through the window above the sink, she chuckled. “Alan’s such a perfectionist.”
Well, I could think of a few other words to describe him.
She lit the stove and flames encircled the coffeepot. Leaning against the counter, she brushed back some loose hair with her hand. “So how are you and your dad doing?”
Oh, no. Any other time, talk to me any other time, but not when I’m about to hear Prater’s biggest secret. “Fine,” I said. Adults like to hear positive things. But they also like details. “My dad just got a new car from the air force.”
“Ooh!” she said approvingly. “Good for him!” She whisked up her rag and padded out of the kitchen.
I pressed the edge of the bottle cap into my palm and looked at the zigzag impression it made. “So you were saying?” I prompted Ray. “Something about Alan being scared of dogs?”
“You can’t tell him I told you.” He emphasized his words by widening his eyes. I shook my head quickly. Heaving a big sigh, he said, “When he was six, one of his dad’s friends brought his big dogs with him to go hunting. Alan was outside, alone with the dogs, when one of them attacked him.”
He clasped his pop bottle. “I was supposed to be there. He wanted me to go, but I didn’t want to. Anyway, the dog bit his head, tore part of an earlobe, and ripped his side open. My uncle had to beat the dog off; it wouldn’t stop. Alan was in the hospital for a few days.”
Mrs. Miller called out from the other room. “Ray, get me the Pledge, okay?”
“Okay,” he called back.
After he left the room, I couldn’t stop thinking about Prater. The whole time Ray had been talking, it happened in front of my eyes like a movie. I imagined him about the size of CeeCee, terrified and bloodied by a ferocious dog, no one around to help. No wonder he was scared of Jack.
When Ray came back and sat down, I asked, “What happened to the dog?”
“Uncle Bruce and his friend shot him.”
I nodded. You couldn’t keep a dog like that—it might’ve killed Prater if his dad hadn’t come out in time. I folded the letter, rubbing my finger along the creases to settle the tape. We sat there, as what Ray had just said played in our thoughts. The coffeepot percolated, making clanky metal sounds and filling the room with the dark smell of coffee.
Ray cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
I frowned and shook my head. “So you think that’s why he ripped up my letter?”
“No, he ripped it up because you stepped on his knife and you also got that leather really wet.”
“But it was an accident!”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t think so.”
Mrs. Miller strolled in and tousled Ray’s hair. “Someone needs a haircut!” Ray smirked and shook off her hand. A pang of sadness hit me. I deflected it by thinking of something else, anything else.
“Hey,” I said to Ray, “can you show me some of those yo-yo tricks?”
“Yeah!” He leaped up from his chair, but then his mom caught his arm.
“Don’t forget about Alan,” she said, then turned to pour herself a cup of coffee.
Ray rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to get my yo-yos and we’ll go outside.”
“Good.” She sipped her coffee.
Actually, it was good we were going back outside. I didn’t want to lose face with Prater, and even more important, I didn’t want to leave Jack alone with him too long. Mrs. Miller went back to her chores, and when Ray came in with his yo-yos, I said, “He’ll probably be mad at you for coming inside with me.” It was a fact that he was already mad at me.
Ray pocketed one yo-yo, looped the other, and threw it down. “He couldn’t stay mad too long. He doesn’t really have any other friends.”
I sat up straighter and leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, he’s always, like, picking on people.”
“He doesn’t pick on you.”
“He always makes fun of me because of the yo-yo. My mom says he’s jealous, but she’s wrong. He thinks it’s stupid. I’m sick of it.”
“My mom always said to ignore people like that.”
“My mom says that, too.” He wove the string around his fingers and looped it around his thumb. “Shooting star,” he said.
I could see it. “Cool!”
Ray gave a little grin and shrugged. He dropped the star and brought the yo-yo up into his hand. “I never make fun of the stuff he does. Some cousin.”
I had seen the way Prater treated Ray. To him, they were more than just cousins—they were best friends. Which would be okay, except he didn’t want Ray to be friends with anyone else. “I thought you guys were best friends.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Just cousins. Our mothers are always putting us together because they are best friends.” He seemed to think about that for a second. “I mean, we are friends. I just—well, sometimes he can be a real butthead, you know?”
Exactly. Except the word that came to my mind was shorter and more precise.