Ben’s got this branch in his hand and he’s slashing it back and forth ahead of him like he’s mad at everything. As Cody and I follow him I wonder, did Cody leak? But when I cut my eyes toward him, Cody does the zipper-lips thing, so I guess he didn’t tell.
This morning, Cody really didn’t want to go to the hangout so he dragged his feet and gave Ben a hard time; maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s because the predicted high today is ninety-eight degrees and it’s getting there fast.
Best-case scenario? Ben will take the problem, whatever it is, up on the roof and commune with it solo—pound in a few nails or maybe rip a few out—and Cody’ll look at his uncle’s comics and I’ll play the piano and wish it was in tune.
Maybe as his best friend I should ask what’s going on, but living with my parents I’ve learned that sometimes not knowing is a good thing.
I’m thinking I’ve dodged it, but when we get inside Ben turns on us. “You guys,” he says, and I know that us guys are in trouble. “You just couldn’t keep your mouths shut.”
Cody and I look at each other like, Hey, it wasn’t me. But it must’ve been one of us—and by that I mean him. Not counting the fact I leaked to him, I’ve kept my mouth completely shut. Still, we both turn back to Ben like we don’t have a clue what he’s talking about—which is usually a good policy.
“So, Jus.” Ben zeroes in on me. “You had to tell Cody?”
I shrug, like maybe it’s a possibility.
“And you—Detective Dobbs—you had to go and tell Cass!”
“What?” I whip around toward Cody.
“I couldn’t talk to Mom and Dad ‘cause of rule number three,” he says. “I had to talk to someone.”
Ben jabs his own chest with his thumb. “You could’ve talked to me.”
Cody blinks. “No, I couldn’t. That would’ve gotten Justin in trouble.”
“Thanks for not getting me in trouble,” I mumble.
My best friend glares at me. “We’ll talk about that later. Cody, why did you tell Cass?”
“I wasn’t telling her. I was asking her what to do. What if there are bones out there? What if I find the dead people?”
I can tell he’s really upset because he starts to hiccup—which is kind of good because it breaks the tension. Even Ben finds it hard to stay mad when there’s a hic every five seconds.
“I didn’t mean to—hic—tell! And I only told Cass and Jemmie.”
“This is just great.” Ben throws himself into a stuffed chair. “By now I bet everyone knows.”
“How do you know?” I ask. “I mean about the general leakage. Did Cass tell you?”
“You kidding? I got a good talking-to from her sister about how ‘honesty is the best policy’ and how Cass ‘deserved to know the truth.’” He rolls his eyes.
I sit backwards on the piano bench facing him. “Maybe you should’ve told her. She’s your girlfriend.”
Ben groans and rests his neck against the back of the chair.
I reach behind me and doodle a few notes on the piano, but this isn’t the time, so I quit. “On the other hand, if you had told her, we’d be hanging around your living room trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the summer.”
“Right! True! I did it for her too.”
I can tell he’s getting less mad at us. Ben doesn’t hold a grudge for long.
I guess Cody knows it too. The hics are getting further apart. He wanders away, sits on the sleeping bag, and begins arranging the comics on the floor again, spreading out his choices. He pauses to put the hat on, then goes back to arranging.
Ben is staring at the ceiling when I ask, “Are you and Cass still…you know…you and Cass?”
“Not sure. Lou Anne says I need to talk to her. Fine. I can talk to Cass, but what am I supposed to say?”
“Didn’t her sister give you a clue?”
“She said I had to be honest with her and explain why I did it and how I would never do anything like that again.” He makes his voice high and prissy, doing Lou Anne. “And how I had to promise that she could trust me from now on.”
“Are you gonna?”
“I don’t know how to say all that!”
“How about if Lou Anne says it for you?”
“I already asked.” He stands up and swings his arms. “Looks like for now this place is guys only.”
Cody pushes the hat back. “Am I a guy, Ben?”
“Half a guy.”
“How about when I’m seven?”
I would’ve given Cody a birthday promotion—at least to three-quarters—but Ben’s still in a rotten mood.
“Half,” he says.
“It’s pretty hot in here,” Cody whines. “I feel all sweaty. Wish we had ‘lectricity.”
“Or a really long extension cord,” I say. Sometimes I can joke Ben out of a bad mood.
Not this time. This time Ben tells us we’re both complainers and walks out. A second later, through the window, I see him scramble up the rickety ladder and hear him step onto the roof.
I wipe my face with the front of my T-shirt. It comes away all sweaty.
“You think we can talk Ben into letting us go home?” Cody asks softly.
“No.” I glance down at the comics, all those guys in tight, shiny outfits. “How do they do it? Those guys never sweat.”
“They can’t sweat. They’re superheroes.”
I point at a random cover. “Nice muscles.”
Cody kneels up for a better look. “Of course he has nice muscles! He’s Superman.” He turns the comic his way. “You think anyone could have muscles like that in real life?”
“I doubt it. They don’t even look real. You know how you can make poodles and things out of balloons?”
“Sure.”
“Superman looks kind of like a balloon trick, doesn’t he?”
“No, Justin. Those muscles are for real. He’s Superman!” But he takes another look at the bulging arms.
“You sure? I bet that under the blue spandex is a whole bag of blown-up balloons,” I say. “Pop them and Superman is just a skinny little guy who probably looks a lot like you.”
Cody blinks up at me. “Ya think?”
“Sure. Let your hair grow, do the curl thing on your forehead, and you’re there.” I take another swipe at my face with my shirt. “You know what we need? A servant.”
He thumbs the hat back, rebalancing it on his forehead. “A servant for what?”
“To fan us with one of those big palm-frond thingies.” He stares at me a second, then grabs the Superman comic and waves it at my sweaty face. I’ve barely felt the first puff of air when a matchbook slides out from between the pages. It lands on the floor in front of him. He gasps, staring at it.
“You okay, Cody?”
“Matches!”
“Yup, those are matches.”
“What if they’re the ones that started the fire?”
“Your imagination is running away with you, Superman Junior.”
He lets the hat fall over his face—inside the hat is Cody’s personal Fortress of Solitude.
He’s under there long enough for me to wonder how he can stand being in there with his own hot breath. “Hey, time to quit breathing carbon dioxide.” When I lift the hat, his forehead is crinkled, his eyes squinched. “What is it, Cody?”
He opens his eyes, stunned. “The hat says those are Uncle Paul’s matches.”
“Makes sense. They were in his comic book.”
“But why did he need matches?”
“He was probably trying out smoking and he didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Maybe…” He doesn’t look convinced.
I grab the hat and put it on. Of course my whole head doesn’t disappear, but I squeeze my eyes shut and act like I’m concentrating really hard.
I can feel Cody’s breath on my face as he leans toward me. “What’s the hat telling you?”
“The hat says…these matches belonged to your uncle, but they have no connection to the fire. He used them for cigarettes…and candles…and stuff like that.”
“You made that up!” He snatches the hat back with a lot more force than I expect. “To you this is just a plain old hat, but it isn’t!”
He sits under the hat for a while more, then I hear a loud hic. “Justin.” His voice is a whisper. “These are the matches.”
“The matches?”
“Yeah. You know, the ones that started the fire.”
“Why would they be inside a comic book?”
“Because—hic—Uncle Paul hid them there.” He lifts the hat and points to the name on the corner of the cover.
“Why would your uncle have the matches, Cody? And why would he hide them?”
“Because…” Cody looked scared. “He didn’t mean to…but—hic—Uncle Paul burned the house down.”